


The Boyfriend

by distantstarlight



Category: London Spy, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Abusive Relationships, All Roads Lead to Johnlock, Comfort Sex, Conspiracy, Developing Relationship, Don't copy to another site, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship/Love, Healing, Heartache, Hitting Rock bottom, Jealousy, John is a Mess, John is a slag, Kidnapping, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Male Friendship, Medical Experimentation, Mysterious villians - Freeform, Post-Season/Series 04, Rare Pairings, Sex, Sherlock is a Good Boyfriend, Tough Love, Turning things around, Working things out, facing consequences, happy ending guarantee, sherlock has had enough
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-05 11:43:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 42,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17324387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distantstarlight/pseuds/distantstarlight
Summary: Sherlock Holmes had done a lot in the last few years and feels that he is entirely responsible for his current situation. His relationship with his best friend has soured to the point where Sherlock wonders if they are even friends any longer, though he thinks they are, at least, they are friends enough that he is babysitting John's daughter on a daily basis. It's not good, but he accepts it, that is, until one day, a tall dark stranger enters his life and turns everything on its edge. John Watson's eyes are finally opened to what he might have had the day he comes to 221 B Baker Street to discover that Sherlock has a boyfriend.What?Happy Ending Guaranteed





	1. Happy Birthday

**Author's Note:**

> Here is my latest fic-experiment where I toy with everyone's emotions and at the same time promise that everything will be okay in the end. I was dissatisfied with the ending of Sherlock Series 4, and we never got more than one season of London Spy, so I mashed them together and made them kiss.

It wasn’t the worst day he’d ever lived through, but it wasn’t the best, either. It was his birthday but there was no cake, no presents, no friends, nothing. Mrs Hudson had said that she was going to do something special for him but she never got the chance. Instead, the worried older woman had needed to rush off to her sister’s who had sprained her leg falling on ice only that morning. His landlady needed to leave as soon as she could to assist the last of her family through the holidays. She didn’t expect to be back until the middle of February, depending on how well her sister recuperated. Sherlock spent his 38th birthday the same way he’d spent Christmas and New Year, and how he expected to spend the rest of the year, by himself.

Sherlock did everything by himself these days. John had chosen not to return to 221 B Baker Street after Mary’s death. The doctor stubbornly remained in the small house he’d shared with her, committed to raising his daughter the way he’d planned with her now late mother.  At first, John tried to find time between his many obligations to continue assisting Sherlock on cases, but his new residence was a fair amount of travel time away from Baker Street and John did not often have time to spare. After a few tries, the doctor tersely reminded Sherlock that he still had to earn a living, to find a way to cover all his current expenses on his own, and while _the work_ was fascinating, it wasn’t often lucrative.

That had stung but Sherlock did not let the effect of John’s words show. Point of fact was that they made _more_ than a decent living doing _the work_ , John didn’t really want for money, but their friendship was greatly strained for a large number of unaddressed reasons, yet John wasn’t willing to outright declare that they were through.  An additional handful of minor cases were solved before John reminded Sherlock that he had to spend more quality time with his child, needlessly pointing out that he was raising his tiny daughter alone, and not needing to explain further that there was no way _the work_ could compete with that. John made his priorities clear; Rosie first, everything else a far distant second.

Sherlock understood, he really did even though he missed his friend, and assured John that he was there to help in whatever way John deemed acceptable. The sting remained, however. _He’d gone through so much to save John and he’d succeeded. John was alive, safe, and free to make his own choices, even if that choice was to remove himself from Sherlock’s world. John hadn’t asked for what had happened and the consequences of decisions that had been made without his knowledge. John owed Sherlock nothing. It was what it was._

Sherlock felt he ought to be grateful for whatever crumbs John tossed his way. The rift his false suicide had created was hardly closed, and the stress-fractures caused by the trials Eurus had put them through were ready to split at the slightest pressure. John was rightfully angry with Sherlock for so many reasons, and Sherlock understood his new role in their universe and accepted the terseness, the constant anger, the coldness, _the everything negative_ that John dished his way because he _deserved_ it. If not for Sherlock Holmes, John Watson’s life would be a much happier thing.

Sherlock had thought a great deal on the many ways he’d gone so wrong, devoting his entire mentality upon the task. _If he’d managed to ignore Moriarty’s taunts, he would be here at 221 B Baker Street still solving crimes with his best friend, his body hale and flawless the way it used to be, his reputation soaring and unsullied. Of course, it would also mean that James Moriarty would have developed the crippling and impossible to remove hold over the global financial world, criminal and otherwise, instead of ending up dead on the roof of Bart’s Pathology, the very same building where Sherlock had made his grand gesture. There would have been no Mary, no Rosie, just the two of them against the world_. Apparently, it had been for nothing because John certainly wasn’t here, he was gone and made it clear that he wanted to keep the distance between them.

Sherlock sighed, the loneliness inside of him sharp and steady. It wasn’t as if he _never_ saw his friend. For the last few weeks, he saw John nearly every day. John worked full-time and one day, unannounced, the doctor popped by to drop his daughter off for Sherlock to care for while he was at the surgery. It had been a surprise the first time it had happened. It was a regular unspoken thing now. John hadn’t exactly said he’d taken back his angry words _anyone but you_ when it came to Rosie, but he apparently had taken Sherlock’s ongoing penitence as read each time he left his daughter in the detective’s care.

Sherlock found it a bit cumbersome, but he _had_ agreed to be her godfather, and apparently, unannounced continuing impositions that made it impossible for him to work on cases were part of the job. Now, neither he nor John had time for _the work_. Sherlock realized that he should have paid attention during the ceremony, but he’d been involved with a case at the time, so there were clearly obligations he hadn’t made note of as well as restrictions he could never complain about. John didn’t mind Sherlock _reviewing_ files in front of Rosie, provided she didn’t see anything disturbing, but that now meant his evidence board was constantly shrouded. There were no experiments to be conducted, no hazardous materials to be allowed within the flat, and definitely no saying no just because Sherlock wanted to do something else. He was expected to silently accept Rosie whenever she was presented, no questions asked, and it was happening with greater frequency, too, because John…

was

dating.

When he first deduced it, Sherlock didn’t know how to react. He was initially overwhelmed with a myriad of emotions, some of them in direct conflict with each other, a confusing melange of feelings, and it took some weeks before he was able to articulate his continued response to the irrefutable truth. He knew how he felt for once, for certain. _It galled him._ John never told Sherlock what his plans were, ridiculously thinking that Sherlock _believed_ he was going to work seven days a week. When he was on the pull, John reeked of his aftershave and wore a properly pressed a shirt instead of choosing one of his wash and wear ones, and even polished his shoes, all the normal Watson date behaviours of old. _Obvious_.

While he did adore his god-daughter, Sherlock didn’t feel it was very fair for John to dump his child on him in order to go chasing one young woman after another. John never dated any of them more than twice, so clearly it was only his physical needs he was trying to sate. John was spending his time with people who shared his _hit-it-and-quit-it_ preferences. Sherlock couldn’t deduce more than that because he spent so little time face-to-face with John. It made sense though, considering what Sherlock had taken from him.

Still.

Sherlock tried to ignore the endless emotional isolation he felt, tried to ignore the increasingly strident demands his transport was making. _It_ was lonely too, and for the first time since he was a teen, his transport and his mind were in perfect sync. Sherlock didn’t much care for endlessly pining after his friend but stopping was apparently impossible so endured it instead. The feelings he’d been forced to confront during his absence only grew stronger with each day that passed and the physical itch that was forever unsated only grew deeper and less resistable with each moment that passed. _Sherlock Holmes loved John Watson, heart, transport, and spirit, full stop. John didn’t need to love him back, likely did not love him back, almost certainly would never love him back, not the way Sherlock loved him. John wasn’t gay, he’d said so firmly on many occasions and was always prepared to loudly repeat himself in case someone forgot_. Sherlock sighed again. _Pointless._

Today was the first time the doctor got called away to have a flirtatious chat with his newest conquest in front of Doctor Hooper, who had dropped by for a minute to give him birthday wishes. She visited Sherlock regularly, mostly because of Rosie, but occasionally, just for Sherlock, though it was a rare happening. John had barely gotten through the door before he let go of a small overnight bag, turned on his heel chuckling at his mobile as his big winter boots left a trail of muck behind him. He didn’t ask if things were okay or if his leaving his child behind again was convenient. Sherlock was with a go-to-relief person that John approved of, the only witness to how strained things were between them now. Molly had practically raised Rosie on her own immediately after Mary passed, and she didn’t mind at all taking the girl for the odd afternoon or even overnight if John required it.

It was Molly who voiced the feelings Sherlock wasn’t even aware he was having, “It’s cruel of John to taunt you like this,” she said over tea. She had wanted to give him a birthday treat but Sherlock had demurred. He didn’t feel like he deserved anything special, not after everything he’d put those who knew him through, particularly Molly. Rosie was passed out on the sofa, her plush bee gripped tight in one hand as she slumbered. “You did so much for him, he knows how you feel, and yet…”

Sherlock blinked. “John knows what?” Sherlock’s fingers were twitching. _Why were they doing that?_

Molly turned to face him, her expression sympathetic, “He knows you love him, that you’re _in_ love with him.” Sherlock felt his throat close with anxiety. _John knew? How? Since when?_ He didn’t realize that he’d spoken the questions aloud until Molly answered, “Since you came back. He’s known since then. It was horrible how he treats you now. I still can’t wrap my head around how unforgiving he is toward you. I mean, he forgave _Mary_ for shooting you!” Molly was indignant now, “He made you help him get married to someone else, knowing that you loved him, knowing that he was leaving you right in front of everyone you both knew. _Sherlock_.” Molly suddenly gripped his hand, her voice earnest. _“He’s using you, Sherlock_. He’s taking advantage of your guilt and friendship, and selfishly getting his at your expense. Don’t let him.”

“What about Rosie?” Molly shrugged helplessly. Sherlock considered her words and quickly reflected on his life. He was essentially stuck on Baker Street seven days a week, subject to John’s needs and whims. He _did_ help Lestrade, but only via email and text. He hadn’t been to an actual crime scene in weeks. He'd spent nearly the entire winter locked indoors raising a child who wasn’t his. Suddenly, Sherlock felt restless. “I need to walk.”

Molly nodded, “Do you want the pram?” Rosie was beginning to wake up, and Sherlock smiled at the small girl. She was lovely and precious, he cared for her intensely, and mostly, Sherlock didn’t mind the time he spent with her. She was clever and amusing and so sharp, she picked up things with a speed that he appreciated and encouraged. _Rosie would be little for only a few years; he was privileged to be with her._ “I have to go but I can walk with you both to the park? How about you get her ready to go out and I’ll pack her outing bag?”

“Thank you, Molly.” Sherlock gave her one of his infrequent one-armed hugs. Molly deserved all his respect and affection, especially after what his sister had done. After what had happened with his sister, Molly’s crush on him had fizzled out finally but that only impacted the depth of their friendship. Sherlock liked Molly and she liked him back. She cared about him in ways almost no one else did. She wanted Sherlock to be happy, just for himself.

They both knew what Rosie liked, too, so soon enough, Molly had peeled and sliced a selection of fruits, filled two water bottles, and packed assorted other snacks, one of Rosie’s favourite comfort toys, just in case, and two tiny spare outfits, as well as a small baggie equipped with nitrile gloves, disinfecting cleansing wipes, doggie poop bags, and a small assortment of specimen sample containers. Even inside a winter suit, the smallest Watson could get herself revoltingly filthy in record time so Sherlock felt his preventative measures were only practical, especially if Watson ingested something toxic by accident. There were plants at the park that could be dangerous, and so he’d been making a survey of the flora they came across, dead as it was this time of year. So far, he hadn’t found anything dangerous, but he wasn’t anywhere near done his research as of today. Watson enjoyed helping him collect samples too, grubbing up leaves and tiny root samples eagerly. “A walk through the park will be good for both of us.”

A short while later, Sherlock was extracting a wiggling bundle of energy from the pram. Rosie was layered up in what was possibly far too many clothes, but Sherlock didn’t like taking chances with her. Still, she was happy enough to toddle away to play with frozen twigs and icy rocks, and bits of dead grass, chattering to herself happily as she rolled around and explored, wobbling back to give Sherlock handfuls of organic matter that he bagged and stored for later examination. He wasn’t worried about her socializing opportunities, all it took was a little bit of time, and collecting samples occupied her until the inevitable happened. Soon enough, other children came by and within thirty minutes, a conglomeration of adults and toddlers stood around and let time go by. Sherlock sat on a dry-ish bench to keep a close eye on his now distracted god-daughter. It was a bit crowded by now, all the benches full, so Sherlock wasn’t surprised to hear a deep voice ask, “Is this seat taken?”

Sherlock looked up. The unshaven man was thin inside his heavy coat, almost weedy, and his head boasted curls that were as dark as Sherlock’s but wilder still, and only a few years younger than he was. The man’s eyes were blue, full of intelligence, and more than a touch of mirth evenly mixed with sadness. There was exhaustion, grief, resolution, determination, and an easy-going, unthreatening, even engaging energy about him. He looked worn out and heartsick. He looked like someone who just needed a small break, for just a minute. Sherlock felt a pang of empathy for the person. _He knew what it was like to feel down all the time, even when he was relatively happy_. “No, please, help yourself.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” said the man with a tired sigh. He collapsed on the bench, of necessity pressed tight against Sherlock’s body. “I feel like I’ve been on my feet for days when it’s only been a couple of hours. I just need a bit of a sit-down.”

“Exercising for your health?” Sherlock didn’t know why he was engaging in conversation. He certainly wasn’t interested in talking to the dad on his other side, nor the woman who sat on the far end of their bench. He wasn’t really touching them either but didn’t mind the warm press of this man’s body against his, “Or business?”

The man chuckled, carelessly throwing his arm over the back of the bench. Sherlock noted that he had no impulse to move away despite the unexpected informality of their near-embrace. “Definitely not for my health, and yeah, I should probably get a job. One day, maybe.”

His enigmatic answer intrigued Sherlock, even as he watched Rosie closely still, “Independent then?” Deductions were flying at him but for once, Sherlock wanted to get answers the old-fashioned way.

“You could say that.” The man nudged Sherlock, “I’m Danny.” He held a hand out to shake, his smile open and welcoming. Something inside of Sherlock perked up and took greater notice of the proceedings.

Sherlock regarded it for a moment, “Sherlock.” They shook. Danny’s grip was firm, assured, but also warm, his fingers thinner than Sherlock’s but then, Danny seemed to be a narrow wisp, even compared to the ethereally willowy detective. He smelled nice. He smelled…comfortable, safe, musky and appealing. Sherlock found himself admiring the long clean lines of his companion, and a voice whispered in the back of his mind that _he_ was indeed gay and that an attractive man was less than two inches away from his body. It wasn’t unpleasant, not in the least.

Sherlock kept glancing at Rosie, his vigilance unceasing, and his new acquaintance followed his gaze. “Your girl is adorable. Doesn’t look very much like you, though, adopted?” Danny pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one, offering Sherlock the pack and the lighter. Sherlock mentally shrugged and took one. He was nowhere near the children, the breeze was blowing away from the people he was sitting next to, and John wasn’t here to glare at him. “Ta,” said Danny after Sherlock had lit both their cigarettes and returned the pack and lighter.

They smoked in silence for a minute, “She’s my friend’s daughter. My god-daughter.” He didn’t know why he was explaining anything to a stranger. Danny was comfortable to talk to, and he reminded Sherlock a bit of himself. He had high sharp cheekbones, and everything about his body made Sherlock recall his days of drugs and living rough on the street. Their bench-neighbours eventually got up and wandered away, but the detective made no move to take advantage of the greater space now available.

“Nice of you to look out for her.”

“Well, I said I would.”

“It’s nice to know there are people in the world who keep their word.” Danny offered Sherlock a second cigarette and he almost took it but declined. One was bad enough. Rosie would be able to smell it, and John wouldn’t appreciate his daughter returning to him reeking of cigarettes. He did take the opportunity to light it for Danny, though, and their gazes lingered on one another for a long moment after. There was a smidge of appreciation in Danny’s gaze, and the way he glanced up and down Sherlock’s body with interest wasn’t horrible either. In fact, it felt rather nice. “Thanks.”

Without thinking it through, Sherlock said, “There’s an empty room at my flat if you need a place.”

Danny stopped smoking and stared at Sherlock, “What makes you think I need a place to stay?” He remained in the same position, not standing up, or in any way becoming aggressive or threatening.

Sherlock glanced at Danny for a long moment before returning his gaze to where Rosie was playing, “Your clothes are of high quality, rugged enough to endure several nights of sleeping in alleys and abandoned buildings, even during this cold season, but the hem of your trousers show at least three different mud-stains, and your shoes have been brushed off but have been worn almost constantly for at least three days. You don’t have anywhere safe to take them off, so you keep them on. Your messenger bag holds books, some personal essentials, and a spare vest as well as pants, you’ve been on the run or in hiding for some time. You seem healthy enough, but there are plenty of church groups and homeless shelters that will let you wash up before they feed you, and you don’t eat much anyway, do you?”

Danny sat forward and stared hard into Sherlock’s eyes, his face hard and filled with mistrust, “How do you know these things, Sherlock? _Is_ your name _Sherlock?_ Who do you work for? Is this a setup?”

Now Sherlock was the one to give Danny a long hard look. Meeting Danny was reminding him of feelings he’d had a long time ago, an instinct he’d trusted, and it was reminding him of the dawning of a new era in his personal life. _Curious_. “My name is Sherlock Holmes, you may have heard of me. I’m a consulting detective.”

It was clear by the surprise on his face that Danny had. “ _A_ consulting detective? I’d read that you were the _only_ one in the world.” Danny seemed to relax again as he effortlessly teased Sherlock, taking a long drag final drag of his smoke. He pointed the remainder at the playgroup, “Your girl is making a break for it.”

Rosie was laughing maniacally and running away from the group as fast as her tiny legs could carry her. Sherlock jumped right up and darted after her. She was a Watson though, and short legs or not, she got a fair distance before he managed to retrieve her. “You are a dangerous creature, Watson.” Sherlock pretended to be angry, but she wasn’t fooled at all. Exuberantly, Rosie threw her arms about his neck and kissed his cheek, grinning madly the entire time. With a laugh of his own, Sherlock turned to go back for the pram but discovered that he had no need to.

“Hi,” said Danny. He’d rolled the pram across the grass, following their flight path until he’d caught up, “Pretty little thing, isn’t she? I’ve never had a chance to spend much time around any kids, so this is new.”

“It takes a surprisingly broad skill set to accommodate one human child, it’s been a steep learning curve for me.” Sherlock had known precisely nothing about parenting until recently. Now he knew everything there was to discover about diapers, formula, the location of reputable fruit vendors who sold their wares via fair trade, environmentally friendly clothing retailers, developmental milestones, the talking points about his pro-vaccination stance, and the fact that his mobile contained no less than three learning apps for toddlers. He was prepared and gaining experience daily. Rosie was a delightful challenge, one that was never boring.

“You seem brilliant at it, if she were darker haired, I’d completely believe you were her biological father.” Danny looked over at Rosie who immediately reached out to him. Politely, Danny shook her tiny hand and that seemed to satisfy her. Wriggling, Rosie squirmed enough to let Sherlock know that she was ready to run around some more. They made their way slowly toward a different section of the park, not really stopping until Rosie finally grew weary a couple of hours later and wanted to sit and eat her snack. He and Danny easily chatted the time away, sitting right by one another whenever Rosie gave them a chance to be still for a few minutes. More hours trickled away, and Sherlock wasn’t bored even once. “You seemed to understand everything she needs, and she barely talks.”

“Well, as a consulting detective, reading body language is part of my job. Rosie may be non-verbal for the most part but there are dozens of cues that I can discern that give me a precise understanding of her current state. Right now, Rosie’s lids are closing, she’s falling asleep and her hands are limp. She’s eaten so if she were unconsciously grasping her fingers, I would know that she’s still hungry but also wanting to fall asleep. It’s all fairly basic, most parents pick it up as they go along.”

“So, you’re already a professional dad as well as a consulting detective?” Danny’s tone was flirtatious, and Sherlock realized that he really, really didn’t mind.

“I like to think of myself more as an _au pair._  I’m merely doing my friend a favour since I certainly don’t get paid for it.” _A massive huge improbably large favour._

“Does she live with you?”

“No, it’s normally during the day or occasionally, in the evening. Other friends are willing to do overnight care but so far, I haven’t needed to.” It was getting close to the end of the afternoon, Rosie would want to be at the flat soon, they needed to go. Sherlock cut his eyes at Danny and then looked away, “I live not far from here.”

Danny smiled at Sherlock, his eyes warm and filled with even more interest, “A room, you were saying?”

Sherlock felt a twinge of something he hadn’t felt in a long time, _anticipation_ , “Yes. Come along, Danny.” There was something about this man that he liked, and Sherlock wanted to discover exactly what that was. They left the park together, their bodies closer to one another than strangers ought to be comfortable with, but neither man made any effort to move further apart.

 

 

**

 

John lay in the bed, sweat drying on his brow and guilt eating him alive. Another day used up, another hour where he was painfully aware of how much time he was squandering on his empty pursuits. It wasn’t often that he got as far as someone’s house, normally, John just found a relatively quiet spot somewhere discrete and went at it. Going to someone’s home always ended awkwardly, like now. The woman beside him was already growing restless, silently urging him to just grab his kit and go. John didn’t argue, rolling silently away from her and yanking on his clothes as he made his way to the door. She was already heading the loo, her back to him. He didn’t need more of a hint than that, he’d done what she wanted, now it was time to leave. They’d both gotten off, he’d made sure of that _several_ times before giving in to his own urges, but this wasn’t a date. It was a random hook-up and they both knew it. By the time he made it through her flat door, he was already laced into his shoes and buttoning up his coat. _Shag accomplished_.

John hailed a taxi and hoped he didn’t smell too much like perfume and sex. Sherlock wasn’t any less observant than he’d been before the Fall, but he was less inclined to vocalize what he saw than he had been. John was pretty sure Sherlock knew that John wasn’t going to work at ten in the evening, even if Mrs Hudson had been happy to take the baby overnight, answering his last-minute text without a hint of reproach. John hated himself for using his friends this, but he was so bound up inside, so wracked with doubts, and hurt, and misery, he needed to let off some steam. _John had been a rubbish boyfriend and had proved to be a worse husband._ _No one deserved to be cursed with a relationship with someone like him, someone who wasn’t faithful, or dependable, who lied and cheated, who lusted for someone who could never want him that way._ No, John wasn’t boyfriend material, and he no longer pretended to be.

The women he met in clubs weren’t always entirely single, but he wasn’t judging them. _How could he? John just wanted to fuck someone, someone soft and touchable, someone who would moan and writhe and make him feel less dead inside for a few minutes. They cheated, he cheated, everyone cheated_. It made him angry, and these days, when John Watson was angry, he acted out and then hated himself for it. The first couple of times had been magnificent, but the glorious feeling of contented release quickly became harder to obtain. Each tryst became emptier and emptier, the pleasure, fleeting. _He didn’t deserve pleasure, he didn’t deserve happiness, he didn’t deserve the good things in his life_.

Once he was dropped off in front of his house, John decided to walk the cold dark streets, making his way without thinking. John felt increasingly emotionally separated with each day that passed. He couldn’t seem to get himself together. He didn’t need to grieve any longer. Sherlock Holmes was alive, well, and waiting for him at Baker Street along with Rosie. He should be happy, ecstatic even, but he wasn’t, he couldn’t seem to manage. He should be mourning his late wife, but he wasn’t. After a few days of initial upset, John had somehow just gotten over her passing in a way he never had when he’d thought Sherlock was dead. Mary being gone was more of a relief than it was a burden, and feeling that way made him queasy, but she had an entire museum’s worth of skeletons in her closet, and all of them had been lethal. Their lives were safer with her gone. He should have done something with that gift but instead, John wasted his time having an endless string of meaningless affairs, and achieving nothing, and ignoring his daughter.

Thinking of his little girl always made John feel both joy and utter misery. He had no idea how to be a father. He was failing at it every single day. Rosie was proof positive that he was useless. Sherlock, _a self-proclaimed sociopath_ , was a natural dad where John, _a licenced medical practitioner and once a soldier_ , struggled every minute to relate to his only child. Their family time together usually ended up as Rosie playing by herself while John lost himself online. That had never been his goal. John wanted her to know that she was cared for, protected, loved, and he couldn’t seem to manage. Sherlock did so effortlessly, watching her with patient attentiveness, responding to her every need gracefully, and like everything else, it made John furious.

John knew he was being unfair, oh gods how he knew. He knew he was treating his best friend like shit, but John was caught in a loop and he couldn’t seem to break free of the emotional rut he was in. When he saw Sherlock, John was always conflicted. On one side, it appeared that Sherlock’s actions had ultimately led to Mary’s death and John was so angry with him for that. On the other, Sherlock had sacrificed himself in so many ways to save John and John was so happy that his friend was back, his prayers answered. He felt urges toward Sherlock, a possessiveness and a hungriness that he’d never wanted to consider, raging as he lost his grip on his conception of complete heterosexuality. Realizing that he was so repressed made him angry in a new way. He didn’t need to be _embarrassed_ about his orientation! Labels like that were meaningless overall, he knew it. It had nothing to do with being gay or not gay, John felt things for Sherlock because of who he was as a person, not because of his apparent gender. John had to get past his own limitations or be miserable and lonely forever.

Rosie deserved so much better for a father than an emotionally crippled John Watson, maybe, if she’d had a mother too, it wouldn’t be so horrid. John was further torn with the memories of his late wife. Again, on one side was the laughing smiling face of the woman he loved, Mary Morstan, and on the other, the cold precise visage of the assassin she truly was, her mysterious life encapsulated in an electronic device and four letters. Mary had told John that she loved him, and maybe she believed it, but he couldn’t. She lied to him so much that everything she said to him just created more questions, and she never answered any of them satisfactorily. John had doubts and had _had_ doubts for months, right from when Sherlock had first returned from the dead, but especially after Sherlock had been shot. John’s lifelong habit of repressing his true feelings about things that affected him deeply forced him to continue denying his actual emotions regarding the world’s only consulting detective, and now everything was muddled because John doubted himself even more than he doubted others.

He wasn’t even sure who he was angry at anymore, but John was filled with undirected rage. He fought to control it half-heartedly, but John’s anger won out often. Sherlock just let it, accepting it, sometimes even encouraging it. The detective made no move to defend himself, not any longer. The temptation to hurt Sherlock, to keep hurting him, was powerful and John knew it was wrong. He knew very well that sleeping around with random people was making Sherlock feel terrible, but it didn’t seem to be enough to stop John, even when it made him feel ill after a tryst. The confusing nervous energy had to be released somehow, and sex was the least physically destructive way, though the emotional costs were climbing daily. He didn’t know what to do. John needed to purge himself of the sickness in his soul. He needed to make amends, reparations, _something_.

Looking back, John could see how Mary had been a perfectly timed and deliberate distraction, a heartless gambit wrung from the tatters of John’s life, all to make Sherlock Holmes suffer. Now she was dead, vanquished along with all the great evil geniuses that had plagued them, every last one of them defeated. They weren’t around any longer to scourge the consulting detective, but they didn’t need to be. John was there, picking up where they had left off, hurting Sherlock daily a thousand times over. John loathed who he’d become, and he couldn’t see a way out of it.

John made his way home where he washed up, rinsing all evidence of his night’s empty passion away. When he got ready for bed, he felt a moment of guilt again that Mrs Hudson was keeping his daughter for the night, and that John was just going to hand Rosie over to Sherlock in the morning, just like he’d done yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that _. Rosie spent more time at 221 B Baker Street than her own home. Hauling over clean baby clothes and formula wasn’t parenting, even if he added a new toy to the pile._

John knew he was a terrible father and an awful person. He recalled clearly when he’d written that hate-filled note telling his best friend that John would trust anyone but him. He hadn’t taken those words back, lamely attempting to apologise by allowing Sherlock to take care of his daughter but even that had been done in the worst possible way. _He hadn’t apologized, he was just taking advantage. He was the worst human being on the planet, he was trash._ John felt like shit again and did the one thing that made him feel a little bit okay, he checked his dating app. Sure enough, there was a small collection of hopeful messages. They made him smile before he finally fell asleep. _At least they wanted him, if only for an anonymous fuck._

In the cruel early hours of the morning, reality was a bit less kind to John Hamish Watson. All his regrets and guilt were well rested and ready to haunt him harder than ever. In the shower, John swore that he’d do better today, that he’d _be better_ today. After he was ready for the day, he called a realtor he’d met during one of Sherlock’s many cases, and they were more than happy to give him a bit of assistance. It was a good beginning, he needed to remove himself from his misery and step into a place that was healthier.

 Resolved, he drank a hot cup of tea while he dressed, carefully filling one of Rosie’s numerous travel bags with two days’ worth of necessities, and then took a taxi to Baker Street. Rosie was already upstairs, but Mrs Hudson made him come in for breakfast, which he quite welcomed. Just as he was done, John heard Molly Hooper arrive. She had taken to popping in to check on Sherlock, and since she loved Rosie dearly, to play with John’s daughter for a few minutes before she too went to work.

John went up to say hello, but just as he arrived a notification chirped at him. He couldn’t help but grin, immediately and completed distracted from his real life. It was one of the bolder women from the night previous with a follow-up text. Smiling, John turned away as he set down Rosie’s bag, tuning out Molly’s conversation with Sherlock. Absently waving goodbye, John left the flat, composing a flirtatious reply, forgetting to kiss his daughter farewell as he left. He took the Tube the rest of the way, exchanging ever heated texts with a particularly lush looking redhead who wasn’t above a bit of public transport sexting. John made a lunch date with her. He knew just the place, a small little restaurant with well sound-proofed restrooms. He’d have her in one of them after they ate.

Four hours later, John had his cock buried up to the hilt, pumping furiously away as the woman moaned and fingered herself. They’d bypassed lunch and went right for dessert. She’d brought condoms, and John was happily using one as he did his best to get her off so that he could come. She liked it hard and rough, so that’s what he gave her, working his hips until she was so wet that she dripped. Her orgasm was surprisingly quiet and John himself hissed a bit as he filled his condom with spunk, coming deep inside her warm soft body with relief. It wasn’t until she kissed him goodbye that he noticed the ring on her finger.

For the first time, regret hit him like a tonne of bricks. _He was ruining someone’s marriage, desecrating someone’s vows, and no excuse made that right._ This woman had her reasons, but John had no right to get in the middle of a tumultuous relationship. He had his own shit to sort out and he needed to do it now. Calling the clinic, John explained that he couldn’t make it back for the afternoon. It was all paperwork, so after promising to use tomorrow’s day off to finish it, John rang off and went for a long soul-searching walk.

He walked for a long time before all the noise in his brain settled down to a disgruntled murmur. John forced himself to look at how he’d behaved since the day Sherlock Holmes came back to life. John did not care for the man he saw, and no amount of mental editing could hide from John the revelation that he’d become a bully as well as an ungrateful _and_ parasitic presence in the lives of his friends. John realized that he was taking out his anger on those who were blameless, and even when they were culpable, he’d gone far beyond acceptable boundaries just to maintain his wroth. He was abusing everyone he knew, taking advantage of their goodwill repeatedly. _He didn’t even pay for the childcare they provided_. Shame overwhelmed him and for a long shaky moment, John Watson wondered if his child and his friends would be better off without him in the world. It was a tempting idea for a moment, easy to do, impossible to take back.

Rosie didn’t deserve that. John had no family left to care for his child, they were the last two Watsons left on his family tree. Shaking his head, John made himself take a deep breath. He kept walking until he came across a small park. He found an empty seat and considered his options. If he truly found Sherlock to be beyond forgiveness, then John had to cut Sherlock out of his life. It wasn’t right, not how they were now, not this toxic death spiral. Sherlock had proven without a doubt how he felt for John, and John didn’t deserve it. He then had a deep realization. Sherlock might seem insane to others but to John, he was pure and beautiful, far too good for this world, even at his lowest, Sherlock was a far better man than John. No one could ever understand Sherlock, and they didn’t deserve to. John had been lucky to know him, blessed to have received his regard but Sherlock deserved better. He deserved more. He deserved everything.

The soldier sat there and felt his worthlessness down to his very bones. _What a mess he’d made of everything. How could Sherlock ever learn to trust him, to depend on him, to know John would be there for him for the rest of their lives if he couldn’t even make it part-way through his first day of his new resolution?_ Cursing his weakness, John took out his mobile, deleted his dating app profile, and even removed the app itself. _He was turning over a new leaf. This kind of life wasn’t sustainable._ John was going to get his priorities in order _._

John Watson loved Sherlock Holmes. He had admitted it to himself right after he’d thought Sherlock had died, and now, he wasn’t certain any longer about his reasons for concealing his feelings. Perhaps it was because it made his personal failings that much worse, that he’d done everything to Sherlock to exhaust his endless rage, even though he loved that frail genius, even though Sherlock was almost more important to John than his only child. Even thinking the comparison made him wince because he was also unsure who he loved more, and it tore him apart to know that he couldn’t even give his child his whole heart. _He was completely fucking useless!_ Despite that, lying to himself had only made things worse, but maybe, if he were really lucky, John could salvage things.

He could go to Sherlock and tell him that he was loved in return. John would make sure that his best friend _completely understood_ that he loved him. He would explain that Sherlock was unique in this world and that John would be honoured to be allowed to remain by his side. John would spend the rest of his days making it up to Sherlock. Standing up, John made up his mind. He was going to go to Sherlock and _grovel_ if he had to. _He’d beg for Sherlock’s forgiveness, do anything he had to win his trust back, and swear to be a better man, a better partner._ He had no idea how to make things right between them, but there was no limit to what he’d try, he knew it. John finally understood that what he needed had been right in front of him this entire time. He needed Sherlock Holmes, and Sherlock needed him. He couldn’t allow himself to mull this over further, John headed right over to 221 B Baker Street.


	2. My Unintended

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's birthday started out miserable and lonely but at the end of the day, he has gained a distraction.

Sherlock was pleasantly surprised to discover that Mrs Hudson was home. “Just a bit of confusion, dear. The ladies from Sissy’s church had their emergency contacts muddled. They thought they were calling a Mrs Huson on behalf of a parishioner who did fall but who isn’t Sissy. They managed to get hold of me while I was still at the station, so I just turned around and came back. I didn’t know what to do with my time since I cancelled everything, so I’ve been cooking all day, and good thing too!”

It turned out that having her favourite tenant bring by her favourite toddler _and_ a handsome stranger caused Mrs Hudson to break out in fancy nibbles. Danny protested but not very hard because Mrs Hudson fed them both a large and sturdy meal, made a huge pot of tea to go with it, and urged Danny to eat as much as he could. The man practically inhaled a full plate, and then went on to eat the plenty left on Sherlock’s. “Home cooked food,” groaned Danny, “It’s always amazing.

Mrs Hudson was entirely taken with him. “It’s lovely that Sherlock made a friend, and such an attractive one,” she winked, “He does seem to move in with them quite quickly, why John only took a day.”

“Well, here’s me beating John’s record,” now Danny winked at Sherlock, “Who is John?”

Mrs Hudson laughed, “John and Sherlock used to live upstairs but these days, it’s just Sherlock.”

“Oh _, the ex_.” Danny nudged Sherlock, teasing him.

“John and I were never more than friends,” Sherlock said stiffly. There was bitterness in his voice, strong enough for Danny to hear even if Sherlock didn’t want him to. He didn’t want to speak about that tangled mess right now. He was feeling almost happy for the first time in months, he didn’t want to spoil it by bringing up _that_. “He married a woman and moved into his own house nearly two years ago. He’s widower now. Rosie is his.”

“We do miss him, of course,” blathered Mrs Hudson, “But then, if John were here, we wouldn’t have room for you, Danny, isn’t that right? There are only the two bedrooms, and Sherlock has been ever so lonely since John left.” She leaned in to register his response, clasping her hands together hopefully.

“Oh, I would have found a way to _fit in_ ,” Danny winked at Sherlock again, his innuendo obvious, and Sherlock felt an unaccustomed heat on his cheek. “We may only need the one.” Sherlock didn’t even try to put Danny off the way he’d done to John all those years ago. Sherlock instead found himself looking Danny up and down once again before realizing what he was doing. Embarrassed, he quickly looked at Danny’s face to see if he’d noticed. Danny was looking right at him, and his smile was inviting _and_ interested.

Mrs Hudson tittered, “Oh, look at that. You’ve made Sherlock blush. I’m going to mark this in my journal, who knows when I’ll see something like this again.” She seemed very pleased and that only made the heat grow worse.

“It’s my new life mission, then,” stated Danny grandly, “I’m going to make Sherlock blush all the time.”

Danny had nothing to move in apart from his messenger bag, so Mrs Hudson took Rosie to get her ready for bed while Sherlock showed his new flatmate around the building, “My room is down there, the shower is across the hall, the kitchen is for experiments, so please, _do not_ store food on the bottom rack of the refrigerator.”

“Fine, Dr Frankenstein.” Danny collapsed elegantly onto the sofa, casually sprawling across the cushions, “Nice place. I have a nice place too, but due to a series of unfortunate events, I can’t access it right now. Don’t ask, it’s complicated.”

Sherlock now had the leisure to examine the strange man he’d brought home, “You’re trying to figure something out, something to do with past trauma. You’ve lost someone dear to you, and you don’t have a handle on how it came about. There are authorities at play, they’ve managed to cut you off from your resources, so they’re powerful. Interesting.”

Danny’s jaw dropped, and Sherlock found himself looking at that round ‘O’ with interest. Danny’s lips were full, like his own, and for a moment, Sherlock felt the call of urges he’d thought he’d long suppressed. “Do you know me, Sherlock Holmes? Do you know what’s happened?”

Sherlock took note of how serious Danny’s face was, how deeply the man was looking at him. Danny seemed wound tight suddenly, almost dangerous, and Sherlock felt something inside him stir, “I’m no stranger to long term intrigue, especially at levels like this. I can help you, Danny, and if I cannot, I know someone who can.”

“Why?” Danny looked so surprised, so hopeful, so grateful, that Sherlock knew he would do anything he could to help him. It felt fantastic to be looked at like that once more, to have someone see him as something good in their life instead of as a problem to be dealt with.

Now it was Sherlock’s turn to look hard, “I am excellent at what I do, even if I haven’t been very appreciated for my skills of late. I don’t have a partner currently, so my schedule is wide open.” _John would just have to make alternative arrangements for Rosie. Danny had a case, something big, possibly a nine or maybe, the so-far-unattained status of a ten._ “You are involved in something large, much larger than yourself, and it has cost you. I understand that very well, unfortunately.”

“You’ve lost a lot too, I can see it.” Danny stood up, “That’s what I do, I _see_ things. I don’t always understand what I’m seeing but it all falls into place eventually, like puzzle pieces. It takes a while to put them together, but I don’t stop until I do.”

“I’m _brilliant_ at puzzles.” Sherlock and Danny were standing nearly nose to nose now. Something was crackling in the air between them, and Sherlock felt his transport responding to the stranger’s scent, unwashed, unshaved, unfamiliar, and oh so appealing, “Let me help you.”

“Who are you, Sherlock Holmes?” Danny’s voice was soft and full of wonder. So lost were they in their conversation that they hadn’t heard someone trudging up the stairs. “Visitor,” whispered Danny, cutting his eyes to the door before going back to gazing at Sherlock intently.

Sherlock didn’t look away, “Hello, John.” He could smell John’s aftershave. It made his nostrils flare but for once, a pang of regretful loneliness did not accompany it.

“Sherlock? Who’s this?” John was standing in the doorway looking at the narrow distance between Sherlock’s and Danny’s body. “Client?”

Danny’s eyes danced, and with another cheeky wink he looked right over at John and said, “I’m his boyfriend. He’s told me a lot about you, hi John, I’m Danny.” Sherlock almost reeled with shock when Danny wrapped a thin arm about Sherlock’s waist, leaning in and whispering into his ear, “Play along, it will drive him crazy.”

John looked floored, his eyes a bit glazed looking, his face filled with disbelief, _“Boyfriend?_ How? Since when?” John was now staring at Danny’s arm around Sherlock’s waist, and his voice was clipped and full of sceptical incredulity.

Sherlock inhaled sharply at the tone. _How dare John make such a query? He was wearing aftershave, something he only did when he was on the pull! John smelled of unfamiliar perfume, and there was a pink lipstick mark on his collar. He’d had an assignation and then had come directly here._ Sherlock burned with indignation. _John had slept with at least eight different women in the last month alone, and those were just the ones Sherlock knew about._ With a hard look, Sherlock scowled at the short man in front of him, saying sharply, “Long enough that we are now living together. Danny just brought his things in today.” Graciously, Danny allowed Sherlock to also wrap an arm around him, “I’ll just be a minute, my darling, all right? I just need to get Rosie’s things and have a word with her father.”

Danny slapped Sherlock’s behind as he walked away, and to his credit, Sherlock didn’t even flinch, behaving as if someone touched his bum familiarly all the time. John’s jaw could not fall further but he tried, “He _lives_ here? Where?” Casually, Sherlock packed up Rosie’s favourite plush toys, her soiled bottles, cups, all of her tiny laundry, and packed it all into a large colourful bag. _John was going to have to be responsible for his daughter’s things right now_.

“Where do you think, John?” Sherlock tried to indicate John’s old room, but John just stared down the hallway toward Sherlock’s room and looked pale, “Rosie is probably already asleep, she’s with Mrs Hudson. Look, John, I can’t take her for the next few weeks. Danny and I are working on something together, and I’ll be unavailable. Give Molly a ring, I’m sure she can spare an evening here and there.”

Sherlock ushered John right down to Mrs Hudson’s flat, leaving Danny alone upstairs. John stopped him with a hand to Sherlock’s chest. “Who is Danny, Sherlock? Why have I never heard of him? What about Rosie? What about…”

Sherlock cut him off, pushing John’s hand away firmly. The heat from his touch lingered, and Sherlock could feel every ridge and bump from John’s fingers as if their impression had burned into his skin, making the scar beneath the fabric itch. The heat of it sank beneath his ribcage and wrapped itself around his heart. Forcing himself to ignore it, Sherlock said, “He’s my _boyfriend_ , John. As I recall, when we first met you told me that this sort of thing was _all fine_. As for why you’ve never heard of him, I don’t recall our agreement to report our lovers to one another.” He leaned in and sniffed ostentatiously, reminding John of what Danny had already pointed out. “I see that you left work nearly three hours ago, but you’re only arriving here _now_. Should I be interrogating _you_ about your active sex life? Maybe I need to ask about how many women you’ve bedded over the holidays, or even just today?” John’s face darkened, and Sherlock’s impatience grew, “As for Rosie, she is _your_ daughter John, not mine. We are… _friends_ , but I am not a day-care, as much as I love her. I have a career to tend to, rent to earn, and a lover to keep. I’ll text you if I need your medical input on a case.”

John had the grace to look ashamed of himself even if his fists remained clenched tight but all that did was cause Sherlock to feel annoyance _. John knew that Sherlock was still in love with him while he had his empty affairs but had the cheek to act jealous of Sherlock having a new friend! John had come directly here after a momentary rendezvous with yet another woman, fobbing off his parental responsibilities onto the one man who craved his attention but apparently would never get it!_ He didn’t need to say more because a much-sobered doctor now spoke with chagrin, “Sherlock, I apologise. You’re right. It’s none of my business, after all, I hardly call you when I’m going to…”

“ _Make a booty call?_ Indeed, John, though I am glad to live in endless ignorance of your frequent dalliances.” It had torn Sherlock inside so many times when they lived together, watching John give his tenderest moments to strangers, leaving Sherlock alone and gasping for attention.

“So, you’re exclusive then?” John looked upset and it made Sherlock feel better and worse, both at the same time.

“You know me, John, do you suppose I am the sort to be casual? I’ve been single long enough, and it’s good to be with someone who _wants_ to see to my more intimate needs. Excuse me, John, I have to go back to making Danny feel at home.” Sherlock left a very silent John at Mrs Hudson’s door, forcing himself to keep his eyes forward as he walked away from the love of his life.

The second the door to his flat was closed, Sherlock found himself being tenderly embraced by Danny. Sherlock felt numb and distantly he felt his fingers trembling. “You were so brave, Sherlock. I could see how hard that was for you. You’re amazing but I swear, this is the right move.”

Gentle lips kissed his forehead. “Thank you.” Sherlock didn’t know what he was thanking the man for but instead, wrapped his arms around Danny’s thin body and held him close. He was having a hard time breathing and his heart was beating in a strange manner as if there wasn’t enough blood present to keep it functioning properly. Danny rubbed his hands up and down Sherlock’s back and it soothed him. “You knew it was him.”

“Kinda obvious,” Danny said, and Sherlock felt another kiss being pressed to his forehead, “Let’s sit down. I always want a good cuddle after an upset and I hardly ever get a chance to, so, come on.” Sherlock had never cuddled with anyone before, not even Janine. She’d sat on him, slept in his bed, and used his bath, but they’d never cuddled. He’d woken up tied to John on more than one occasion but being hauled away while enemies attempted to murder them couldn’t be classified as a _cuddling_ situation. Danny sat on the sofa, one leg on the cushions, and pulled Sherlock down with him, arranging them so that Sherlock was resting against Danny’s narrow chest, their fingers tangled together. “Tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine.”

It was blissfully easy to tell Danny about John, and in return, Sherlock got to hear about Alex. Sherlock liked the sounds of him, clearly Alex was intelligent, clever, and resourceful, all traits Sherlock found admirable. Hours went by as both men unburdened themselves to one another, and by the time they were unable to speak any further, Sherlock was the one holding Danny tight, wiping his tears away, and brushing soothing kisses against his curls, “You really loved him.”

“Maybe?” His voice was thick and broken when he answered. Danny’s tears ran anew, telling Sherlock that his new friend had cared for his late lover deeply. “Never got the chance to really find out, did I? We weren’t together for very long, and I guess you could say it was love at first sight, but there was so much that was hidden. I’m stuck now, caught feeling this way for a dead man, trapped by all the secrets he kept and all the lies he had to tell. I was his first…his only. Alex never had a chance either, and it was his love for me that got him killed. They killed him for having emotions.”

Sherlock made an important connection, and it rocked him _. John had loved a dead man too and might never forgive Sherlock for leaving him that way. Danny would never get such an apology from Alex. His return would never happen_. Danny broke down completely, and Sherlock wanted nothing more than to hold him for as long as necessary while he wept his grief out. _At least John was alive. John was present. No, their relationship wasn’t smooth, but Sherlock had his answers, and if there were more questions, then John was there to possibly respond. Alex wasn’t. Alex would never be. Danny had to live the rest of his life knowing that Alex had died horribly and that the people who had done it would ever be free from consequence_. “Come on, let’s wash up. You need sleep.”

Danny was still lost in his grief but allowed Sherlock to lead him to the bathroom. Unabashed, Danny stripped himself naked and got into the shower, “Join me.” Sherlock understood that Danny wasn’t propositioning him. He was feeling tender and raw right then, as was Sherlock. All they wanted to do was comfort each other, and Sherlock couldn’t deny himself this indulgence. He’d give that to Danny, and perhaps, get some for himself; a break, a rest, a new start.

Sherlock brought his straight-razor and cream with him, shedding his clothing as shamelessly as Danny had. Carefully, Sherlock shaved the scruff from Danny’s tear-stained face, kissing his forehead gently on occasion as he worked. It made them both feel better. Danny returned the favour, and once they were shaved, shampooed, and scrubbed down to their toenails, they stood under the hot spray and hugged one another, pointy hip-bones bumping painfully, both men doing their best to be gentle.

“Better?” Sherlock combed the wet hair from Danny’s brow with his fingertips. When Danny nodded, Sherlock shut the water off, and together, they towelled off. Sherlock now knew that Danny’s body was hairier than his, that Danny’s uncut penis was long and thin like his, but that his cockhead was fat and flared, barely contained within its foreskin. Danny seemed to find Sherlock’s arse very attractive, patting it dry with his own towel before they dressed in pyjamas that Sherlock provided. Sherlock found a brand-new toothbrush in the cabinet, and silently thanked Mrs Hudson for her endless mothering. Once their teeth were clean, Danny yawned hugely before asking, “Can I sleep with you? I am just…soul weary.”

Sherlock found himself nodding immediately. _He didn’t want to be alone either. He ached inside too_. “Come along, Danny.” Sherlock took Danny’s hand and together, they fell into bed with one another. Danny reached for Sherlock eagerly, winding their thin limbs together as they continued to comfort one another, “Goodnight, Danny.”

Danny tilted his head back to kiss Sherlock firmly on the lips, “Goodnight, Sherlock.” It was so easy to fall asleep together, their hearts and bodies sapped from emotional turmoil. Sherlock slept hard for the first time in months, and when he woke, the day was already well begun, and Danny was still by his side. Sleepily, Danny opened his eyes and smiled, “Hey there. You’re fucking gorgeous in the morning, anyone ever tell you that?”

Sherlock felt his cheeks heat and saw Danny’s grin grow, “No. No one has ever had the occasion.”

Danny leaned forward and kissed Sherlock’s mouth firmly again. It was warm, friendly, and as comforting as one of the lovely hugs that Danny was also giving him. “Well, now you know. Come on, beautiful. I’m bloody starving now. I haven’t felt properly hungry in I don’t know how long, and I haven’t slept this well since I don’t know when. Gives a man an appetite, it does.”

Sherlock was stuck on one word. _Beautiful?_ Sherlock didn’t consider himself so but apparently, Danny did. It made him feel warm inside to be admired. He accepted the compliment and the quick rub to his arse that Danny also provided, “Handsy!” Sherlock was surprised to feel his penis twitch with interest. Waking up in a tumescent state wasn’t something that happened to him very often, so he wasn’t sure how to interpret his body’s loud declaration of attraction versus his year’s old vow to keep personal matters above the waist.

“I know, I’m terrible that way. I just really love a good arse and yours is spectacular. They both laughed, and Sherlock made no attempt to remove Danny’s hand from his buttock. It felt nice to have someone kneading and handling it. Danny was rather attractive, in his own way, and Sherlock surprised himself by leaning in to kiss those smiling lips, “Feed me, Sherlock, before I go searching for _a_ _protein alternative_.”

Sherlock’s face went scarlet at the brazen innuendo, and Danny laughed buoyantly, “Fuck, you are the prettiest man I’ve ever seen. Love it.” Danny kissed him again, only this time, his tongue was involved. They snogged lazily for a long time before Danny’s stomach rumbled loudly. Breaking away, they grinned and climbed out of bed.

Cooking was unnecessary because Mrs Hudson came up the second the bedroom door opened. She bore a large over-filled tray of fresh scones, hot cereal, fresh fruits, and clotted cream, “Yoo hoo, boys!” Even Danny blushed when she smiled at them proudly, “You two both need feeding up. I won’t always be doing this, you know.”

“I know Mrs Hudson, you’re a landlady, not a housekeeper.” Danny effortlessly charmed her, kissing her head as if he’d known her for years, “Don’t worry, I like to cook, and if I’m going to be with this one, I think we’re going to need all the energy we can get.” Mrs Hudson looked even prouder, especially when Sherlock blushed all over again. Danny looked triumphant.

After their latest rather large meal, Danny and Sherlock went to the sofa to sit together. It was easy to cuddle up, Danny’s head on Sherlock’s chest to hold hands and talk about their wretched love lives and worrisome problems. “So, you have some insane genius criminal sister, and I have a shadow government that is actively trying to kill me.”

“Well then, I’d say we’re a good match.” Danny laughed at Sherlock’s words and snuggled closer, “This isn’t usual for me, you know.”

“I know. I read the blog back when it was active. Doctor Watson made it pretty clear that you weren’t the most emotionally available person in London. That’s all right, because I think he was wrong, and I would know. I have more feelings than any two people combined, and I think you do too.” Sherlock felt an unaccustomed neediness blooming inside himself. To sate it, he tilted Danny’s head back to press a kiss against those willing lips. The kiss deepened quickly, and soon, they were back to snogging. When they broke apart, Danny’s grin was crooked, “I’m getting the feeling that you like me, a bit.”

“Maybe a lot?” Sherlock wasn’t interested in hiding his emotions from Danny. He’d hidden his emotions his entire life and all it had gained him was misery. He’d known Danny for only a day, and so far, every moment had felt right. Even thinking of John had become less painful, though the tremendous love he had for the soldier was as large as it ever was. Danny was soothing, a panacea, but he wasn’t John and he never could be. That didn’t mean he was _pointless_ though.

Sherlock had been running hot for years now. The game with Moriarty had spiralled into an insanely complicated life or death match of wits, one where the world’s only consulting detective had needed to die to win. He’d suffered so many times since then. He was covered with scars on his body and bruises on his soul. Sherlock _wanted_ gentle hands on him, wanted to know what it was like to be treated as something to be treasured, someone to be enjoyed, and not a tool to be used, a weapon to be deployed, a weakness to be exploited, or a debt to be paid. Nearly everyone he cared for was angry with him or was maintaining their distance. Sherlock wanted something for himself right now, something he’d never asked for, ever. “Want to teach me how to have sex? I’ve never.”

“What?” Danny sat up, his eyes going up and down Sherlock’s body hotly, “A virgin? How did I manage that, again?”

“You’re too charming for your own good, neither Alex or myself have any way of saying no,” Sherlock teased gently before he grew serious. “I had always thought it might be with John, you know, first times and all that rubbish. I hadn’t thought about it frequently but when I did, I could only ever imagine it was with him, is that pathetic?”

“No, not pathetic at all. Alex was…Alex was pure. It wasn’t just that he’d never had a lover. He had principles. He was good. He was talented in more ways than I ever had time to learn, but some things…for some things he was spectacularly ignorant.” Sherlock laughed as he heard John’s own words come from a different mouth, and nearly cried from the unexpected intensity of it. Danny sniffled, his eyes filling again, but he used a tissue to clean himself up and smiled damply up at Sherlock, “He was a lot like you, I think. Brainy. Beautiful. He studied or practiced all the time. I was the only person he made time for, the only one who made time for him. It wasn’t anything incredible. We hung around my shitty flat. We lay in my bed and just…talked. It was difficult for Alex to relax, at first. It scared him, intimacy, he never expected to want to have some. He didn’t know how to handle how it made him feel. His family was, well, let’s just say they were _interesting_ but in the Chinese curse kind of way. I had problems too, fuck, I was such a mess. A complete tart, dangerously so, but that’s a whole different part of my past. With Alex, it was different than the shags at parties or bars. _We made love_. It wasn’t a dirty little fuck in a toilet stall. That all ended even before Alex. I _wanted_ to be closer for the first time, and it was hard for both of us. I didn’t realize how he was trying to protect me from his life, and how few our times together would be.”

“I hope you don’t have to say the same for me.” Sherlock realized that he wanted this. He wanted sex, not because he was falling in love with Danny, but because he _wasn’t_. He couldn’t, not ever. Sherlock wasn’t the sort of person who was able to be in love more than once, and he was in love with John. He always would be, just like Danny, despite his equivocations, would always love Alex.  Danny understood Sherlock in a visceral way. His pain was comparable to Sherlock’s, except his torment was ongoing while Danny’s was perpetually becoming more of his past.  Danny was someone Sherlock could receive understanding with, with whom he had a connexion. They were addicted to all the same things and they understood one another. “I want to learn.”

Danny paused, “I insist on condoms. I’m clean but had a scare a while back and got tested, been completely clean since then. I made a promise, I had this friend…” Sherlock didn’t miss the distant gaze as Danny trailed off, nor the renewal of sorrow on Danny’s face. It was obvious that Danny had lost more than one person he was close to. This was obviously a tender spot that haunted Danny still and suddenly, Sherlock felt all his own loneliness. “Scottie helped me when no one else cared to. I owe him so much and I’ll never get a chance to pay him back. The least I can do is honour his hopes for me.”

Sherlock felt a deep need to comfort this man. He wanted to reach out the way he so often wanted to reach out to John but could never figure out how. Sherlock recalled the numerous times he wished he’d had someone to lean on, so he encouraged his new friend to do so with him. Collapsing into his arms, the younger man sagged heavily against him for a long minute, then Danny sniffed hard, wiped his eyes once more, and smiled at Sherlock. “Here, budge up.” They shifted positions until Sherlock’s head was on Danny’s lap, “Relax, gorgeous. I’m going to touch you and show you how to touch me back. Just relax. Let me do this.”

Danny began to pet Sherlock’s body. There was no other description for it. It was languorous and relaxing. Sherlock felt himself drifting as Danny stroked and caressed him, his bony hand sliding over Sherlock’s clothes. “You can do more if you like.” Danny didn’t hesitate. His hand slid up Sherlock’s pyjama top, running over Sherlock’s skin delicately before dipping into Sherlock’s bottoms. Slowly, Danny explored Sherlock, pulling at his bottom-cheeks, shifting Sherlock until his arse was bared and available for fingering. Sherlock spread his legs a bit wider, inviting more, enjoying the sensation of being explored. Never before in his life had he considered how it might actually feel to just _let go_ , to follow his instincts and expectations, but today, he did. Sherlock wasn’t in charge of his transport right then and he didn’t want to be. He wanted to experience his body, to know how his flesh could sustain pleasure, to feel the luscious decadent build of desire until he could rise no higher.

Sherlock felt relaxed and expectant. For a moment he thought he’d be overwhelmed with reluctance to share his first times with someone who was a stranger to him.  There was no hesitation, he was eager. Sherlock had always been curious about so many facets of sex but had explored none of his interests. Sherlock perceived that he’d been _saving himself_ , quaint idea that it was, for someone special, but that someone didn’t want him that way. Danny did, in fact, the younger man had wet his fingertips with saliva and begun to tease Sherlock’s hole playfully. It felt insanely good, and Sherlock grew hard. Danny did too, “I want to suck you.”

Sherlock had never done anything like this, but Danny was erect, he smelled enticing, and the feel of his hard shaft pressing against Sherlock’s face was bizarrely arousing. Sherlock had once pondered John’s preferences, had day-dreamed about pleasuring the man he loved. It had never happened. Now he was with Danny, and if their quickly spiralling relationship was going to be sexual, then he was going to try everything he’d ever considered, starting with this. There were no objections. Danny shimmied off his pyjamas, dug a condom out of his messenger bag, and slipped it on, fisting his hard cock before pressing the head against Sherlock’s lips, “I don’t mind if you pretend that I’m John. Mind your teeth. Use your lips and tongue. Try not to force in too much, just use your hand.”

“I fantasized about doing this for him, of giving him this. I don’t want to pretend though. I don’t mind that it’s you, I’m glad in fact. I want to do this to you and I want you to tell me everything you like until I can do this better than anyone alive,” Danny looked a bit glazed and unfocused as he fed his cock to Sherlock, his thumb tenderly tracing the outline of Sherlock’s now taut lips. They groaned as he intimately rubbed the roof of Sherlock’s mouth, slid over his tongue, and bumped the back. Sherlock found the overload of sensations to be extremely pleasing, liking the way it felt to stretch his jaw, curious as to how different it would taste and feel without the condom, and suddenly wondered what the feel of semen sliding down his throat would be like. He’d have to find out some day. Doubling his efforts, Sherlock moaned as he eagerly fellated Danny, completely focused on his task. It was unfortunate that this was the moment John decided to drop by unexpectedly.

When the front door pushed opened, Danny yanked up Sherlock’s pyjamas but not before John got an eyeful of where Danny’s fingers had been, and there was no hiding the fact that Sherlock had several centimetres of hard cock in his mouth. Danny grabbed the Union Jack pillow and hid his lap as Sherlock pulled off and sat up, “What the fuck, John! Don’t you knock?” Danny demanded with furious indignation, “I know you _used to_ live here, mate, but from now on, I think a little common courtesy is in order, yeah?” Danny looked down at Sherlock with concern, “Are you all right? This is a bit of an awkward moment.”

“Awkward for whom?” Sherlock asked darkly, _“John?”_ He made direct eye contact with the man in question, and then Sherlock pointedly wiped the mess of saliva from his face. He was still hard and now he was extremely irritated that he’d gotten only a small way into his first blow-job before John ruined it. “This is _our_ home, and not his, so who should feel awkward? Certainly not me.” He glared at John, “Is there an emergency?”

John couldn’t seem to speak. He simply stood there, hand frozen on the door handle as he struggled to control his reactions. John looked completely confounded, his eyes wild and his face red with what looked like anger. He sounded confused when he repeated, “Emergency?” Now John was staring at Danny as if he wanted to physically rend the newest occupant of 221 B Baker Street to shreds.

“Yes, John, _an emergency_ , as in, a valid reason for bursting into a flat you no longer live in and disturbing the private moments of the people who do?”

Danny was also glaring at the soldier, ignoring how John stood himself tall, aggressively posturing, “Oh, don’t bother trying to intimidate me. If you’re so jealous of Sherlock, maybe you should have snapped him up while you had the chance! I didn’t wait, so fuck off, you. Sherlock, why do you put up with this kind of shit from him all the time?”

“He’s my best friend,” Sherlock said, searching for a reason. He felt conflicted now. He should be happy to see John but now, Sherlock only felt exasperated. He quickly reviewed his data. _John was always welcome at 221 B Baker Street, but Sherlock definitely was not welcome to drop by John’s unannounced. Sherlock had no opportunity to rush inside John’s house ever simply because he’d never been given a key. Speaking of which_ , “John, Danny needs the flat keys back, all of them. I can’t be with him 24 hours a day, delightful as it would be, and there’s no need to make Mrs Hudson pay for a new set. You’ve got your own place, you don’t need keys to ours.”

Sherlock saw active pain in John’s eyes when he spoke the word _ours_ but the pleasure he felt was fleeting. John had hurt Sherlock similarly hundreds of times since he’d returned from The Fall and had never once tried to make up for it. Sherlock had been snubbed and blanked in between taking care of Rosie. Lately, they never spent time together doing anything except handing over possession of John’s daughter. It had been that way for ages now as John distanced himself deliberately from Sherlock. _Why, they hadn’t even worked on a case together in months, besides, he was telling the truth. Danny was going to live here, and he needed his own set of keys. Now John had the temerity to look reluctant as he played with the key set in his hands?_ “The mail key, too, John. Now, if you please.” Sherlock tried to harden his heart as he witnessed John’s struggle to part with his last link to 221 B Baker Street, but it was a painful necessity.

John remained silent while he worked the keys off his ring, setting them on the mantle rather than giving them directly to Sherlock. John kept looking at his feet and mumbled something about Rosie being at preschool for the day and that he’d been wondering what cases Sherlock was working on. Danny kept his eyes on John, his voice thick with incredulity. “Seriously, mate? From what I understand, you’ve been using Sherlock as free childcare for ages, that you don’t bother calling or texting to see if he’s okay unless you need him, you don’t even pay for storage of your shit upstairs… that’s got to go by the way… and that while you tell him you’re working when you drop your girl off, you’re actually going on dates? Now I’m here and suddenly you’re _miraculously_ free to spend some time? Seriously? I don’t even know you, but I’m telling you, you’re coming off as kind of an arsehole.”

John’s face darkened, “No. You _don’t_ know me. You don’t know what I’ve been through, what _he’s_ put me through, do you? No. I was traumatised when he faked his death in front of me, my wife is dead because of him, and that’s just the tip of the iceberg, so don’t even try to make me feel like a heel for having to find someone else for what I can’t get at home anymore. Who are you to talk to me like this? You’re just some street-rat junkie drawn to another junkie. Tell me, Danny, if that’s your real name, why Sherlock?” Sherlock’s heart broke all over again when John called them _junkies_ , but Danny laughed right in John’s face, striding over after standing straight up, apparently unconcerned that his now only partially erect cock was bobbing openly in front of him as he stalked forward wearing only a condom.

 _“I_ don’t know him? I’m thinking that I do, and sight better than you do, mate, for all that he’s supposed to be your best friend. As for what he’s been through? Love, I know things he’s _never_ told you, things he’ll _never_ tell you because you are an ungrateful heartless selfish self-repressed prick. Yeah, I used to be off my tits on drugs, so _I get_ where Sherlock is coming from. I understand _why_ he had to go there. Do you? Have you ever even _tried?_ How much blood has he shed for you? What sacrifices has he made for you? What suffering has he endured for you? How many of the scars on his perfect body are there because of you? In what way have you thanked him? That’s right, mate, you haven’t. You just use him to dump your shit on without a single thought about how he’s suffered. Get your sanctimonious and judgemental face right the fuck out of my home, you horrible human being, and stop imposing on my boyfriend until you’re ready to treat him right.” Danny leaned in and sniffed, “Cheap perfume. What is she, professional or just desperate? Go on, John, go back to the things you find more important than Sherlock Holmes. I’m going to stay right here until this beautiful man comprehends exactly how amazing he is, and _I_ won’t have to beat him to a pulp to get him to understand.”

Danny spit on John’s shoes and John was stunned enough let him. There was shock, remorse, shame, regret, and hopelessness on the soldier’s face. Sherlock didn’t know what to make of it, Danny’s instantaneous and viperous attack stunned him. _He’d clearly listened carefully during their cathartic conversation last night and had ruthlessly used the knowledge to strike John where it hurt the most._ John’s fists clenched an unclenched until they finally hung at his side, unmoving. He made no move to lash back at Danny, wordlessly accepting everything, denying nothing.

Sherlock was silent. He was frozen inside, unable to speak in John’s defence because Danny was harsh but truthful. _Sherlock had died to save John, had been shot through the heart for John, had gone back on drugs because of John, had nearly killed himself for John, and John’s response was to exorcise his rage and fury upon Sherlock, to turn his back on his old friend unless he needed Sherlock to look after his daughter_. He didn’t even ask for _that_ , Sherlock realized. John just brought Rosie over whenever he needed to and assumed that Sherlock would just take her in. He had. _How could he say no? Rosie was innocent of all, he wanted to help protect and nurture her_.

Sherlock realized then that he urgently needed to make a real break from John, if only for his own mental wellbeing. Their relationship currently caused him genuine pain, and it had hurt for so long, he didn’t have the internal strength to let it keep hurting. He was bleeding out and it couldn’t continue. “John, in future, try to text or call first. Danny and I are working on things together, and we’d appreciate having time to ourselves. Perhaps we can meet your latest girlfriend, a double date. Not this week or next, possibly after?”

“No, later than that, gorgeous. We’ve quite a bit of personal ground to become familiar with.” Sherlock knew that Danny was referring to his mysterious opponents, yet his new lover clearly worded his phrases to make it sound like their only interest was to have sex. While Sherlock was sure that he was going to copulate with Danny, the case was his primary interest. John would just have to adapt, after all, Sherlock wasn’t asking any more of him than John had asked of Sherlock. It was entirely fair, as far as he was concerned, to put his new unplanned boyfriend before his ex-flatmate/heartbreak. Decision made, Sherlock huffed, “John, in case you didn’t understand, Danny and I would like to get on with our _activities_. Unless there’s an emergency, or it involves Rosie, call first.”

“Knock, mate, just knock. Its so basic even kids know how to do it.” Danny sat back on the sofa, still careless of his nudity. Sherlock was impressed. He didn’t think he could be so calm if people could just _see_ his genitalia, especially John. “Don’t look so sad, you’re still _his_ best friend, don’t be an arse. _This_ man is faithful to those he cares about.” Danny managed to make John wince again as he subtly told the soldier off for his doubts about Sherlock’s character while simultaneously questioning John’s. Sherlock was amazed all over again. _John reactions were revealing that he did have romantic feelings towards him but had chosen to keep them from Sherlock_.

It made Sherlock angry, understanding that John had punished him for so many things, things that were beyond Sherlock’s control, things he didn’t have influence over, despite knowing that Sherlock loved him, and even though John obviously loved him back. Fury took over. _It was too late now, John had missed his chance_. Serendipitous as their meeting was, Sherlock planned to take every opportunity with Danny. He’d help him solve his case, have sex, learn how to be in a relationship, and do everything that he’d never get to do with John.

_There._

_Done._

_He did it_.

Sherlock stood there watching as John limped away and felt like he needed to cry.


	3. Misery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has just had a shocking and eye-opening experience. What will become of it?

John went home with Rosie for the first time in a week. _Sherlock had a boyfriend_. He bathed his daughter, fed her a late meal, had to bathe her a second time, and then sat with her on the sofa, his mind blank as a single sentence repeated itself. _Sherlock had a boyfriend_. John put his child to bed and got himself ready to sleep. _Sherlock had a boyfriend_. John closed his eyes and against his will, he did not stay awake. In his dreams, a single phrase kept on going. _Sherlock had a boyfriend_.

The next morning, John got up, brushed his teeth, fed his child, dressed them both after calling the clinic to reschedule his shift to accommodate his time with Rosie, and to clear his afternoon. _Sherlock had a boyfriend_. John brought Rosie to the posh child-care facility where she spent her days. There was a newly single mother there, one who had been flirting heavily with John since they’d met. During the outdoor play part of the morning, John bought the woman a hot coffee from the kiosk nearby, smiling a bit when he got the second for free, his regular server handing over his with a sly grin that John returned. He was flirting too hard to make note of the sour aftertaste of it. _The quality wasn’t important, the scenario it played a part in was important._

Without intending, John found himself inside a janitorial closet ten minutes later, giving her a good seeing to even as his brain reminded him that he wasn’t doing this kind of thing any longer. John couldn’t seem to resist his impulse to fuck anyone who was interested and temporarily available, but the moment he came, he loathed himself. She was happy and left him standing there with his pants around his knees and regret bubbling up in a bilious wave. Yanking them up, John made up his mind and practically ran back to Baker Street and Sherlock. He had never regretted an impulse as much after seeing what he saw when he got there. _Sherlock had a boyfriend. Label confirmed._

Danny was _devastating_. John was helpless against him. Every word that had come from the strange man’s mouth hit its target inside of John, and he knew there was nothing to say in his own defence. He was despicable. Faithless. Useless. He was a greedy vulgar selfish cretin with no moral high ground available to him that was strong enough to refute the agonizing comments he’d been levelled. When he’d first arrive, John had been filled with possessive red rage, and the desire to obliterate the new man with every dirty trick in his considerable militant arsenal, but he hadn’t lifted a finger, nor said a word, to defend himself. _How could he? Where was the lie?_ Danny had scourged him with the truth and there was nothing in the universe that could protect him from that. John was vile.

Now, John staggered away from 221 B Baker Street in a complete daze. He couldn’t stop the continuous replay of how Sherlock had looked with Danny’s prick in his mouth, his body posed wantonly. He had been incredible, and it made John want to gouge his own eyes out. He couldn’t stop imagining what it would feel like to be his cock that Sherlock had been taking in, but it was Danny he’d had that first time with and not John. Grief tore at him as hard as self-recrimination. Sherlock had waited for him, had endured his wroth, had taken every handful of crap that had been flung at him, all because he loved John. John knew he was wrong on so many levels. He didn’t deserve Sherlock’s love. He deserved to watch the man he cared about be with someone else, just like he’d forced Sherlock to watch _him_ be with anyone else. John remembered that he’d implied as much in the horrible letter- _anyone but you_. Now he was being roasted in a hell of his own making.

John made it four blocks before he needed to lurch into an alley to collect his wits, his emotions in an almost hysterical swirl as every feeling he had fought for dominance. _It was hideous._ John grappled with the bizarre intensity of it all, vertigo making the street go topsy-turvy and gravity to fluctuate _. Sherlock and Danny were really together. They were really living together. They were having sex_. John knew Sherlock had been a virgin by choice and had idled more than one night away fantasizing about what it would be like to show Sherlock what he was missing. Those musings had happened long ago, before _the Fall,_ but John remembered them with shameful clarity. He now had _graphic_ mental imagery detailing exactly how that ship had sailed.

John felt bereft with the loss, ill with regret. He was sick with it. His entire body broke into a cold sweat as a bottomless emotional abyss opened, forcing John to comprehend the incomprehensible. The region around his heart and chest felt tight and hollow inside. _He’d never be Sherlock’s first. It would always be Danny. John had missed his chance and he had no one to blame but himself. Sherlock and Danny were in the flat right now, kissing, touching one another, going back to bed_ …John threw up. Tears filled his eyes as he heaved wretchedly behind a bin. _Was this what Sherlock had felt whenever he’d gone on a date right in front of him?_ John threw up a second time, his stomach already empty, heaving and retching helplessly from an overload of emotion. _The world was wrong now and it would never be right._ He was supposed to be with Sherlock and Sherlock was supposed to be with him. _John had done this to Sherlock. His own actions had led to this result. Now he was getting his just desserts by seeing Sherlock move on with someone else_.

John fumbled for tissue in his pocket. At least as a parent, he always had supplies on him, not that he spent much time with Rosie. _He was a useless prick all around._ John wiped his mouth with a second cloth after he mopped his eyes with the first one, but he had to lean against the cold brick wall to catch his breath, and to control the tears that threatened to fall. John’s chest felt tight and there was a burning sensation radiating from it. His left arm felt numb and for a few minutes, John considered that he might be having a heart attack, but the symptoms passed once he began to weep. He was mortified to be out in public where anyone could witness his downfall but it hurt so horribly that he could not stop, not even if every woman he’d ever slept with had been standing there and watching in judgement. _He had lost Sherlock. Sherlock had found someone, he didn’t need John in his life. This was all John’s own fault, he’d driven Sherlock away one selfish act at a time_. John knew he’d practically invited Sherlock to make those last steps toward the complete severance of their friendship. _Why John had all but forced him to do it._

 _Now_ John understood what Sherlock had felt like when he had seen Mary for the first time. The detective hadn’t known about her. It was obvious Sherlock hadn’t a clue that John moved on from his old life and was at the cusp of beginning a brand-new life, one that made no room for the late Sherlock Holmes to be in it. John spirits plunged downward. He was drowning in a thousand recollections of Sherlock’s retrospectively obvious personal pain _. Why, John had practically rubbed Sherlock’s face in his marital happiness, not only scorning the man he’d had the audacity to still claim as his best friend but excoriating him as well. He’d compelled Sherlock to not only witness John’s life without him but had compounded his discomfort by managing to treat him even worse after Mary was gone. He’d punished Sherlock repeatedly and then had flung his lack of personal relationships right into his wounded face, bitterly attempting to make Sherlock take up with The Woman, with anyone at all, pointing out the Sherlock wasn’t good enough on his own, and now that he had, John was forced to see how wrong it was._ The doctor threw up a third time. _All he’d had ever done was hurt Sherlock. How the detective had managed to keep caring for him this long was a miracle! Sherlock had every right to seek happiness with someone else._ John couldn’t fault him for that, not for a moment.

Exhaling carefully, John fought to bring himself under control. It was hard though; his emotional state was currently nearly identical to how he’d felt the days after he’d watched Sherlock commit suicide. John felt out-of-control, stuck in an emotional free fall that had no apparent end in sight. He felt grief, anger, shame, regret, bitterness, and loss, all at the same time. It was too much. He needed to get out of the filthy alley and go somewhere else. There was a place nearby he’d frequented often. Walking through the door, John ordered his first drink, laying his credit card on the counter, “I need to get drunk,” he told the bartender.

“Come to the right place then, John.” John had pulled several ladies in this same place and was a regular, and like so many places, he was given a special and free drink upon arrival. In his own way, John had grown an odd collection of places he liked to find or take his dates, all with friendly staff who eagerly gave him complimentary drinks or even meals for his celebrity, standing by his table until he’d finished it all. Today was the same and he knocked back the offered shot, letting it burn its way down his throat and handing back the glass to the bartender who then went back to his work. Like most of his first drinks of the day, the aftertaste was bitter and unappealing, but a fresh drink always took care of that problem. The gruff old man wiped down another already sparkling glass before taking a nearly full bottle of whiskey off the shelf, “This will keep you going.”

John picked up the first glass the barkeep poured for him and tossed it back, setting it down after indicating the need for an instant refill. “Keep it coming.” John didn’t want to think about anything. He wanted to blot it all out. He wished for a mind palace of his own so that he could delete everything that troubled him and then, maybe blow the mind palace to pieces. _Well, he could accomplish a substantial amount of brain damage with drink._ With that fact at the forefront of his self-destructive mind, John set to it, determined to drown his sorrows and erase his memories, or at least blur them into the background.

John felt like he’d detached from the man he used to be. He hadn’t felt like himself in years. Even before Sherlock fell from the roof of St Bart’s, John had noticed that he was changing. His temper was hotter. His impulses were harder to resist. He craved the violence of a good fight in a way he never had when he was enlisted.  All of those changes were boiling up. It was rare that John’s sister was ever called to retrieve him but today was that day. John’s temper and misery had already caused numerous altercations with the otherwise soft-drinking lunch crowd in the establishment. He wasn’t normally an aggressive drunk but today he was looking to shed a little blood, even if it was his own. Eventually, the bartender demanded that John leave, and that’s when Harry had been contacted. “Oh Johnny, what happened? Where’s Rosie, love?”

 _“Harry!”_ John was falling over himself to get to his sister. Harry looked a great deal like John, her features an impish and delicate replica of John. Her hair was a brighter shade than her brother’s, but their eyes were the same dark blue. People had often thought them twins, though they were not. Harry wrinkled her nose at the smell of him, her years of careful sobriety still shaky and subject to temptation if she wasn’t careful, “I ruined everything.”

Harry looked around, “Where’s Sherlock? I read in the papers that it was his birthday. Are you two out getting smashed? What is going on, John?”

John gaped at her from the floor where he was currently recovering from his latest fall of the bench, “Oh, my god. His birthday. I completely forgot. I didn’t notice.” John got to his knees and heaved himself back onto his stool, guzzling back the tall glass of amber liquor that was still there. Harry tried to pull it away, but he managed to swallow nearly all of it, “I’m a fucking arse. A tremendous prick. A fucking useless shithead with no heart and no fucking sense. His birthday, oh god.” John wanted to cry and came dangerously close to blubbering into his empty glass.

“Where is Rosie, John?” John recognized the tone of Harriet’s voice. She was making herself be very patient, and it wasn’t easy. _Of course, Harry was in recovery, but she was standing in the middle of a busy pub to try and help him. He was the worst brother in the world_.

“Safe. She’s at the school, was s’posed to pick ‘er up at three.” It was barely one PM and John’s legs felt watery and unstable. He didn’t feel numb the way he’d hoped, and his sister sighed, shaking her head because she understood exactly how he felt. Harry hefted him up, made sure his bill was squared away, and collected his credit card from the sympathetic looking bartender, “I’m such a fuck up, Harry.”

“I know, Johnny, we both are.” Harry got him to the street, needed to almost carry him. Harry noticed that John was limping heavily and that he couldn’t seem to close his left hand on anything. It worried her. Opportunistic taxi drivers were waiting along the curb and Harry poured John into the closest one. “Address?”

John just gave her his mobile. He was too drunk to operate it. With a frustrated sigh, Harry managed to find the number and called them, “Her dad’s ill. I’m her aunt, Harriet Miller, we met during orientation? John and I are coming by cab to pick her up.” John was grateful that he’d had the foresight to register Harry’s information with the centre, especially since she’d kept her ex-wife’s surname. The people at Rosie’s school took their jobs very seriously and didn’t just hand children over to any old person claiming to be a relation. Mycroft had vetted the place, and it made John feel useless all over again because he couldn’t even do _that_ for his child.

Once they retrieved Rosie, Harry brought them back to John’s house. Once there, she forced him to shower, to brush his teeth, and when he was done, she left him there to change into clean clothes and to drink some water as well as a strong cup of coffee while she took Rosie out for a walk, extending the time John had to make himself presentable. When they eventually returned, Rosie was tired enough to fall right into a heavy nap while Harry sat across the kitchen table from her sodden brother, “Okay Johnny, what in the world happened to get you sozzled in the middle of the day? I haven’t seen you do something like this since…” Harry trailed off, unwilling to mention the bleakest period of John’s life, a time of grief that not even the death of his wife could surpass.

“Sherlock. Dating. _Danny_.” John felt tears well up and he hid his face in his hands, ashamed to be weeping noisily over a broken heart in front of his sister. All the booze he’d consumed wasn’t helping at all, he felt nearly sober already. “I’ve lost him.” From there the entire story tumbled out. John confessed the deeds that weighed so heavily on his blackened soul, telling his sister everything he’d kept inside for so long, “I don’t know what to do, Harry! He’s happy. He looks…they were…I saw…Harry, what do I do? Danny _spit_ on me for how I’ve behaved toward Sherlock and he _should_ , I am scum.”

Harry sat back and considered what she’d learned. She brewed tea this time, making John sip his with sugar for once though he normally didn’t bother sweetening it. “Okay, let me get this straight. Sherlock Holmes faked dying, for you?” John nodded. “He spent years running about the world taking down a global underground criminal organization, to protect you.” John nodded again. “He was tortured.” John nodded, a tear dripping down his cheek. “He came back to England for _you_.” Now John’s hands were shaking as he nodded. “You were angry with him. You didn’t forgive him, not really, did you?” John shook his head, “Did you miss his birthday on purpose?”

“No. I just…forgot.” She wasn’t going to believe it, not after everything.

“Forgot?” Harry sounded sceptical. “John Hamish Watson. You made me come over to celebrate both the birthdays that happened when you thought that Sherlock was dead so we could commemorate him but now that he’s back and alive, you what, fucked off with some random skirt and just made him look after your daughter?”

“I didn’t even say good morning, either, I was chatting up someone online.” He felt so much shame and regret and he knew his sister was glaring at him.  “I just needed to be with someone, anyone. I’m so lonely.”

“You were cheating on your wife when she was alive, wasn’t _she_ enough?” John broke down and cried because she was right. He hadn’t actually slept around on Mary, but he would have, he knew it. He should have respected his wife and himself by staying faithful. Harry shook her head, her voice filled with frustration, “You got married and you knew he loved you. Why, John? You weren’t even _serious_ about Mary, why did you propose? You kept it a big fucking secret, too. You know, mum is still sore at you for not even inviting us? What was going through your head? For fucks’ sakes, _Clara_ got an invitation! We’re still divorced, you know? What was it all about? Even after, you didn’t tell us, _Sherlock_ called. He was worried that we’d been delayed for some horrible reason, and then he tried to blame himself as if he’d forgotten to send us an invite when it was your job to tell your own family what was going on. We saw wedding photos on social media, you looked like you were literally shitting your pants. Tell me that’s just how you look when you’re actually happy these days because mum was ready to call the police and tell them that you were being coerced.”

“Sherlock had just deduced that Mary was pregnant with Rosie. I was shocked in that one, but so was Mary.” John tried to feel worse, but he seemed to be at rock bottom already, so he shrugged, “I don’t know why I went through with the marriage, it wasn’t like I even actually proposed? It happened the night he came back but I never actually asked. A wedding made sense at the time, or at least, Mary made it sound like good sense. I wanted it, I wanted to get married. I had just spent years falling apart every single day. I needed someone who wanted to stay with me, who wanted to grow old with me, I needed… I loved Mary or thought I did. She was easy to be with, comforting. Our lives were so normal. She was funny. Smart. Clever. You couldn’t keep anything from her. She reminded me of…”

“Of Sherlock.” John nodded miserably again. “So why did you continue on with her once Sherlock came back?” John didn’t want to meet his sister’s gaze at first. “Oh Johnny, you didn’t. You did not use that woman to make Sherlock suffer more because you were mad at him?”

John felt horrible as he now saw that this was exactly what he had done. His sister was impossible to hide from, she knew him far too well, better than he knew himself. “No! I loved Mary, I did!” _He had! Hadn’t he? He must have at one point, enough to buy the ring._ He recalled how Mary had urged him to consider moving in with her, of getting serious. _Was it love that had motivated him then or despair?_ John was unsure now, but he did know that he hadn’t loved her at all in the end. Her death had felt like a great deprivation, like accounts between them would never be properly settled.

“John Hamish Watson! Who _are_ you? You went and married a woman for spite! You got her pregnant!” Harry loved Rosie fiercely, but she hadn’t even met her niece until after Mary had died. She and Clara had planned to have children one day, but Harry glumly accepted that it was unlikely that they ever would, not unless things changed substantially between her and her ex-wife. “You should have left her the minute you found out Sherlock was alive, what made you stay with her?

“That’s not all.” John took a deep breath and confessed the worst of the woman he’d planned to spend his life with, “Mary had a terrible secret. She was an assassin! She _killed_ people for a living. Mary was still doing it when she was pregnant!” Harry reeled back, horrified. John looked at her imploringly, “She shot Sherlock. I didn’t know about any of it until much later.”

“WHAT?” Harry clapped her hands over her mouth, worried for a moment that she’d woken Rosie. Leaning forward, she hissed, “Your wife _shot_ your best friend? Where? When?”

“In the chest, right after we got married. I…left her then. I stayed at Sherlock’s until Christmas. Sherlock arranged for her to come to his parents for the hols and I…I…”

Harry sat back, her eyes hard. “You took her back right in front of Sherlock’s entire family? _At Christmas?_ Wait, didn’t he…he was sent away for murder, John! It was in the news. He killed for you? He saved you again? And you _still_ picked her over him?!” John seemed to curl up on himself.

“She was _pregnant_ , Harry! Sherlock all but told me to do so, he’s the one who organised everything. He thought he was helping Mary, for me.” Harry was almost glaring at him, obviously struggling to contain her comments. “I know, okay, I know. I’m an absolute _shit_. I fucked _everyone_ over, I know that, all right? Yes, Sherlock lied to me when he pretended to die, but I’ve done nothing at all to thank him for all of it. He’s amazing and I’m just…just…Harry, I’m such a fucking mess. I make every wrong choice there is.”

Harry sat back and looked at her brother. “Can’t argue that.”

“Harry!” John protested.

“Well, what do you want me to say, John? From what you’ve told me you have acted like the biggest arse on the entire planet. For fuck’s sake, John, what more can someone possibly do to prove how much they care for you? I don’t understand, I really don’t. This isn’t like you at all. I _know_ you care for him, bloody hell, did you manage to forget what you were like when you thought he was dead? Don’t you remember any of that? Have you felt anything even remotely like that for your wife?” John shook his head and Harry snorted, “Idiot.”

 _“He’s moved on._ I can’t blame him. Why wait for someone when what you’re getting is going to be a fucking nightmare to live with? All I’ve done is use people, I’m taking advantage of their good nature, and all because I’m too proud to admit that I’m in love with my best friend and admit that I died inside when he went away. I’ve used my daughter as an excuse instead of being a proper parent to her, and fuck, Harry! I just said I was a mess, why are you making me say it?”

“You’re too arrogant to listen to anyone but yourself so I’m going to sit here for the next few hours and keep reminding you that you are a pathetic lowlife who needs to grow up and act like the man he used to be! _Snap out of it, John_. Sherlock loves you. You know he does. I know he does. All of fucking England knows he does.” Harry emphasised her words with a sharp slap across his face. John jerked back in surprise, “You are pathetic!” Harry’s voice was accusatory, “You are just flailing about, refusing to look at the big picture because _one detail_ didn’t go exactly as you envisioned. Remember all those late-night phone calls you used to make to me when you said you’d do _anything at all_ if only he would somehow be alive? Did you do _anything_ or did you do _nothing_?” John hung his head again and his sister made a disgusted sound, “Of course you didn’t, so listen here, _John Hamish Watson_ , you are going to remind yourself why this man was your best friend. You are going to go back to being the man I know, _my brother_ , the person who supports the people he loves, the man who is there when he’s needed, who gives a damn about their happiness. I don’t even recognise you anymore! If you want Sherlock to know he’s the most important thing in your life, then you have to show him. So what if he has a boyfriend? He’s _still_ your best friend, so go out and be his best friend right back. Do things you know for sure will make Sherlock happy.”

“They’re having _sex_ , Harry!” John knew this was the weakest possible excuse he could offer, and his sister was keen to remind him of that.

“And _you’ve_ been shagging strangers for months now! You probably have a callus on your dick from all the new holes you’ve put it in. That reminds me, we have to schedule a health check for you. I hope you used condoms but we’re checking you for STIs. Oh, don’t make that face, remind me of the last long-term relationship you had?” Harry had started quietly but by the time she got to the end, she was shouting. John was silent, guilty as accused. “Exactly, John. Yes, you missed the boat on with Sherlock, but there’s always tomorrow so just in case, let’s not give him the clap, okay? So, proving your love to Sherlock, what have you tried apart from anger and physical abuse?” John visibly cringed now, and Harry’s voice grew hard, dripping with disappointment as she shook her head slowly, “I’d never have thought that you’d be the one to behave like dad.”

“Harry, no,” he protested weakly because John didn’t want to be compared to his late father; violent unforgiving merciless bastard that he was, and yet that’s exactly how _he_ was now. Something had awakened all the worst parts of his inner self, brought them out and up, had let them take over all the better parts of himself that he’d tried to nurture for his entire life. John had to acknowledge that he had almost cheated on his wife with Sherlock’s sister, he had certainly beaten his best friend so hard that it had taken weeks for the bruises to heal and Sherlock had nearly lost one eye. He would need glasses earlier than he might have because of it. Even when Sherlock first came home, the doctor had been physically abusive. John hated himself and couldn’t stop recalling every single moment when he’d harmed people he claimed to love, shattering his own vows without breaking a sweat. _He didn’t deserve to be loved by anyone, he was trash!_ He said so out loud.

“You _are_ , John, but you don’t have to keep being this way. You can rise above this. It is trash _can_ , not trash _can’t_. You know the path you are starting down so now you have some decisions to make. Are you going to keep letting anger win? Are you going to keep hurting the people you love to satisfy your pride? Are you going to be just like _him?_ I hope not because if you do, I’m going to pray that Sherlock and Danny remain together for the rest of their lives so that Sherlock doesn’t end up like mum. Think about _that_ , Johnny. Do you want to be the one who breaks Sherlock, who destroys his spirit as much as you wreck his body? I left Clara for a reason. I never hit her, but I came close. The words I used hurt her as much as physical violence might have, I’m so sickened with myself. I’m going to therapy to get help and Clara’s willing to work things out with me, so _maybe_ one day we can be together again, but _you_ , Johnny…” Harry sounded concerned now, “John, why should Sherlock trust you when you can’t trust yourself? You’re better than this, I know you are, so here’s what I think. Danny is here now, but he might not be here forever. Stop thinking so selfishly, John, think about Sherlock and what he needs. Support him. Be a real friend, no expectations. Give him a piece of that beautiful person that you are, let him know that you’re there for him.”

“I’m selling the house.”

“What? Since when?”

“I’ve already had a firm begin the paperwork, I don’t want to live here anymore. I need a fresh start.”

“No, this is perfect, John!” Harry looked excited, “Go back to Baker Street.”

“What? No! Danny is there! I couldn’t…”

“Couldn’t what?” Harry was frowning again, “I told you _to support Sherlock_. You need to be better with Rosie too. It’s time to grow up, John. I’m saying this because I love you and because you’re stupid. This is your misery bed that you made with your own backward brain, time to lie in it. Listen to me. Go back to 221 B Baker Street the way you should have done after your wife died and be with Sherlock. Yes, Danny will be there, and no, you can’t just keep dropping your daughter off with different people. You dated people back when you were first there and Sherlock managed somehow, you will too. You are going to mature, you are going to go back to doing the right thing, you are going to succeed at being _Sherlock’s_ best friend. You are capable of being a good person, John, remember that.”

Harry was heartless as she immediately routed him. She didn’t give him a chance to sober up more or to sleep. That very evening, Harry forced John to begin boxing up all of Mary’s things, searching online for local charities herself and popping over to the local shop for extra boxes. Mary had been dead for months now, and even though he hadn’t loved her at the end, John still hadn’t cleared away her possessions, blankly choosing to live around them instead. Harry took charge of Rosie, getting started on the mountain of unwashed laundry that John had just been ignoring, checking in with his progress every few minutes to ensure that he did what he was supposed to do.

John was entirely uncomfortable handling his late wife’s things. He’d felt so many emotions when she had passed away, clutched in his arms, her life’s blood spilling out and staining their clothes _. He didn’t even know what had happened to that outfit. Had it been discarded? Burned? Bagged up as evidence?_ He didn’t really recall what happened in the days that followed her death at the aquarium though he distinctly recalled what he’d done to Sherlock in the morgue. Shame burned him once again and he almost stopped packing. The reek of _Clair de Lune_ made him nauseated now. The scent would always make him think of her and the endless litany of falsehoods that she had been made of. He didn’t even remember who her friends were. None of them had come to her funeral, only her workmates.

The last of her would be gone soon enough, and then she would be nothing but a tarnished memory. John’s wardrobe was two-thirds empty now, all of Mary’s blouses and dresses packed tight into the boxes that Harry had gotten from the nearby market. John swallowed hard as he began to go through Mary’s jewellery. He had no idea what to do with any of it. Finally, John sorted out the costume pieces from the genuine ones, keeping the more valuable portion inside Mary’s large display case for when Rosie was older, and boxing the rest up to be donated to a charity.

It helped. John slowly sobered up, just functional enough to be able to tell the difference between things that had been his in his _pre-Mary_ life, and everything else. He stripped their sitting room of everything from the framed prints on the wall to the small selection of paperback novels stuffed inside a small bookcase. _He didn’t want any of it. Mary Morstan was a made-up personality that had been constructed solely to appeal to him, nothing about her could be taken at face value. She had chosen these props to support that character, they didn’t mean anything real. He didn’t need sentimental reminders of a lie_.

For Rosie’s sake alone did John keep a handful of photos that caught his wife at her best, their wedding certificate, and a handful of other small mementoes that his daughter could remember her mother by. All of it fit into one of Mary’s expensive shoeboxes. After he’d finished the bedroom and the sitting room, John moved onto the loo, binning everything that was hers that couldn’t be decently donated. He went through the entire house, meticulously gathering and removing every trace of the illusion known as Mary Morstan.

Hours later, the last of the alcohol had worn off helped by many glasses of water and several cups of tea. John was ready to sit down and share a very late meal with his sister. He felt better than he had for months now. His head felt clearer and he felt a little more able to deal with reality. He watched his daughter for a moment. Rosie was in her highchair, earnestly colouring an entire sheet of paper blue. She’d worn her crayon down to the nub and showed no signs of stopping, “She’s fed already, I gave her a bath. All you need to do is read to her and get her ready for bed.”

John felt guilty all over again _. He shouldn’t need to be told when and how to care for his child._ Carefully, he cleaned his plate of the meal his sister had provided, took up his baby, and put her to bed, reading book after book to her until she was hard asleep. Finally, John went back out to face Harry. “She’s out.”

“Good, we still need to make some plans. You said you were selling this place?” Trust Harry to have some kind of idea worked out. She was a ruin in her own right when it came to her life, just like John was, but maybe that’s why it was always easier to hear the solution from their sibling. Harry listened to John when she was at her worst and it had worked out well for her. Now, it was John’s turn to take his sister’s advice, and hope for the best, ‘You’ve cocked shit up so badly, John, I’m just being honest because you have so much utter rot to make up for. First off, move back in with him. I don’t know why you waited this long. Everyone in London knows he was waiting for you to come back. What, you enjoy paying enormous amounts of money every month for a place you hardly even stay in?”

“You know that’s not it, Harry. I was so angry with Sherlock, I just, everything seems ridiculous now, petty.” John felt so ashamed of how awful he had been, and for so long.

“Because it _was_ petty.”

“Thanks a lot, Harry.” John felt worse with every moment of clarity he endured. He was such a prick, such a self-destructive, hateful, abusive, selfish, selfish, selfish prick.

“Don’t thank me for noticing that you’re a gigantic arse! Poor Sherlock didn’t deserve your shitstorm, so now this is what you’re going to do. Danny is in, that’s just going to be a given. I know it’s a crap hand, but John, dearest brother, you’re going to have to accept him. What you want is for Sherlock to be happy, right? Ideally, you would like him to be happy with you, but for now, he’s happy with Danny. That really sucks for you, but you can’t be the bad guy here and try to chase Danny away.” Harry looked steadily at him, waiting for his answer.

“Sherlock chased away all _my_ girlfriends!” John protested and knew it was the wrong thing to say the moment he said it.

Harry threw her hands up in the air with frustration. “At the time, the man described himself as a sociopath and _that’s_ the moral model you want to cling to? No, John! You didn’t appreciate his interference, did you, and he won’t appreciate yours. In fact, you can bet that Sherlock would practically handcuff himself to Danny if he thought someone was trying to make them break up, just for stubborn spite. Am I right?” John reluctantly nodded. Sherlock could be the ultimate brat. Perhaps Harry was right, copying his behaviour probably wasn’t the healthy choice. “Good, glad we’re on the same page. Okay then, that means you’re going to have to make like an adult and get on with the bloke. Don’t be the cause of stress between him and Sherlock. Don’t give into your adolescent urge to show up him, embarrass him, threaten him, or intimidate him.”

John flushed a bit. A few moments reflection had provided him with a litany of assholery that he’d indulged in recently and Harry rolled her eyes, “Or stop whatever of those or all of those things if that’s how much of an arse you’ve been. Help Danny to keep Sherlock happy, but get back in there, let Sherlock see that you’re invested in him, that it matters to you that he’s doing better, feeling better. Don’t make it about _you_. You’ve already used up your share of time doing that, and then some.”

“This is your fantastic advice?” John felt bitter. _He didn’t want to live at Baker Street with Danny and Sherlock. He didn’t want to witness their affection for one another, to always be the awkward third party. Would Rosie notice Danny? What if she liked him? What if Danny stayed forever, John couldn’t plan to live there forever pining for Sherlock who was contentedly in love with someone else! That would destroy him_. John made a flash decision. He’d sell this place but also purchase another home, somewhere away from London. _Sussex had always appealed to him as a place to retire. Maybe he could start a small practice there, and just get out of the detective game altogether? He could give Rosie a good life there, a safe and happy life._ “I need to think about that Harry, I mean, not the making Sherlock happy bit, that I want to do, but going home and having to see them together? How can I do that?”

With a voice filled with concerned pity, Harry said, “John, you do realize that you refer to 221 B Baker Street as _home_ all the time? You haven’t lived there in how long now, but you’ve never once stopped calling it home. That’s pretty telling, isn’t it? Okay, no, your chances at making it up to Sherlock are dismal, but if anyone can do so, it’s you. John, buck up, find your spine, pull your testicles out from wherever you stored them and go win back your man! Sherlock has loved you for _years_ , he went through hell and back to save you. Danny can’t measure up to that. Let Sherlock have this, let him have his lover, let him heal, and use this opportunity to show him the John Watson he fell in love with. Give it time, Johnny, but you have to be willing to sacrifice your pride, for once.”

John was silent, “Well, I did promise myself that I would grovel.”

“Good man, good thinking, grovelling is most definitely in order,” replied Harry approvingly, “He’s worth it, isn’t he? You love him that much?”

“He is. I do.” John took a deep breath before scrubbing his fingers over his eyes, now exhausted and blank feeling. “I’m just done in.” He had a weird craving to go find one of his regular pubs, just to enjoy the generous attention he always received and a stiff drink, but he couldn’t, not tonight, maybe never again.

“Shower. Sleep. Think. Do.” Harry’s older sister voice was just as compelling as it had ever been so John tottered off to wash the day away. _He was going to sort his shit out starting with the drinking and the fucking around. He was done with all of that. John was going to focus himself on Sherlock and Rosie, and if he needed to, Danny. He could do it. For Sherlock, any effort was worth it._ Soon enough, clean and more relaxed than he’d expected, John fell asleep with plans forming in his head, resting properly for the first time in years.


	4. Changes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is moving forward with his plans and he receives assistance from an unexpected source.

Sherlock watched silently as John turned and left slowly, his right fist clenched tight but his left sagging by his hip lifelessly. The detective couldn’t help noticing that John wasn’t walking easily. The doctor had entered with even steps but on his egress, he dragged his right foot the tiniest amount. _John’s psychosomatic limp. It hadn’t fully returned but there was a faint tremor._ For one lingering moment Sherlock wanted to chase after John, to tell him it was all a lie, to beg him to return but instead, he hardened his heart. _John might limp again, but Sherlock’s body was filled with heavy scarring from the tortures he’d endured to keep John safe. He had come back from death both literally and figuratively for John._ They both had issues to deal with, and that was just how their lives had played out. The balance they had once given one other was no longer there.

Sherlock felt hollow. He hardly noticed Danny pulling his pyjamas back on, nor how the thin man had wound himself around Sherlock, petting his head and kissing his cheek, making comforting sounds. Sherlock realized that he was crying again. Sherlock closed his eyes and wished his heart would stop hurting so easily. He _hated_ being out of control like this but he just couldn’t stop it any longer. There was too much there, too large a strain had grown over time. He had to release it somehow or be torn apart forever.  “It’s okay, gorgeous. It will all be okay, I promise. He’s coming back to you, I swear, I swear, I swear.” Danny kissed Sherlock’s face all over, “I know this was hard, beautiful, but John’s not going to get it through his head unless it hurts. He’s obviously even more of an idiot than you are, utterly hopeless, the pair of you. You deserve each other.”

Sherlock laughed damply, wiping his nose with a tissue before getting a fresh one and mopping the tears from his eyes, “I’ve never been such a weeper.”

“Crying is good for you. You can’t keep it inside forever, beautiful man, it’s better to let it go. You’ll see clearer now.” Danny was right. Sherlock saw that he’d been in an emotional twist for so long that parts of him were atrophying. He was rotting inside, and the festering sections needed cauterizing. He had to learn to live again, to heal, to grow. Danny kissed him, “You’re doing me no end of good, Sherlock, just know that. I hope I’m doing the same.”

“You are,” Sherlock kissed Danny once more, letting the heat between them building until they were rutting against one another. The desire between them was simple, natural, and instinctive. His body was telling him what to do so boldly, Sherlock hauled Danny into his arms and stood, walking them to his bedroom. Danny just wound around him like a vine, his tongue still deep inside Sherlock’s mouth. It was so easy to shrug out of their pyjamas and fall into bed together. Danny’s mouth was everywhere, and his hands were devilish and teasing. Sherlock was hard once more and found that Danny responded brilliantly to being sucked. He made a mental note to purchase a larger supply of condoms soon because he planned on going through Danny’s small supply very fast. Sherlock enjoyed the flare of Danny’s cock, and suddenly, things weren’t going quickly enough. “I need you to fuck me.”

“Yeah, yes, fuck yes. No going slow. I want to be in you. Let me open you up.” Danny wasn’t shy, not a bit. He flipped Sherlock onto his belly, hauled his hips up, and began to use his mouth on Sherlock, shamelessly rooting and burrowing, stabbing Sherlock’s anus with his tongue, kissing desperately until he had pried Sherlock open enough to accept a finger. It felt intrusive and stingy yet the discomfort enhanced the thrill of it all. It was all so new, and normally he would want to catalogue it all. He was tired of thinking so instead, he let himself simply _feel_. Groping his bedside drawer a bit, Sherlock managed to reach his industrial grade medical lubricant, and waved it in Danny’s general direction, “Your arse is so pretty, all of you is so pretty. You’re so strong, so lovely. I can’t wait to absolutely destroy this little rosebud. I’m going to come so deep inside you. I want to hear all your sounds, every moan, every cry. Let me have it. Let me show you what to do, what you’re going to do to John one day.”

Sherlock shuddered, filled with a rapture he’d never experienced, and was brought to a new high by Danny’s compliments, crude promises, and caresses. It wasn’t long before one long elegant finger was pumping deep into his arse, and he imagined having John like this, spread out beneath him. Closing his eyes, he could help but imagine what it would be like if John trusted him this much. Danny talked him through each step, explaining how Sherlock should bear down, urging Sherlock to remember to stretch his future lover thoroughly rather than risk unpleasant tears or worse. When he tensed, Danny distracted him with facts about the pros and cons of saliva vs artificial lubricant until Sherlock relaxed again. His lover demonstrated how to press and swirl the tips of his fingers, and eventually, how to slip one long digit slowly inside. After several minutes, Danny drizzled on extra lube, and worked a second finger in. It hurt deliciously, and Sherlock couldn’t wait for more.

Danny kept going until he was able to fit three fingers easily, Sherlock’s anus now glistening and stretched. He’d had no idea that he could feel so sensuous, that someone doing this to him could feel right and glorious and just what he needed. The sensations were powerful and overwhelming, erasing all the sadness in his heart, replacing it with something new. By the time Danny was breaching him with his penis, the fat head popping in smoothly, Sherlock was incapable of speech. It was all so intense, so lusciously new. Danny’s groans were deep and heartfelt, and he was surprisingly strong. He kept everything gentle for a long time but eventually, his self-control began to slip.

Sherlock did not mind. Danny began fucking him with long deep strokes, making his arse bounce a bit, and it was brilliant to connect his transport to such primitive activities. Each thrust made his cock slap upward against his belly, and it was marvellous. Danny drew it all out, edging them close and backing off again until the detective was desperate to come. He’d never wanted to achieve orgasm so urgently, and even without it, he’d never felt pleasure so intensely. Sherlock now understood why people loved sex so much. His entire body was filled with throbbing energy. Danny was hot against his back, his panting breath blowing into the curls at the nape of his neck. The sensation of being repeatedly pierced was addictive, each new thrust and angle filled with unanticipated delight.

Sherlock knew that their mutual passion was fuelled by their respective sorrows, but he didn’t care. _So what if they were using one another?_ Sherlock felt amazing, for once. He felt high, completed, and utterly content. Danny’s narrow hips arced back and forth with determination, shifting Sherlock’s body often as they both began to work toward their orgasms. He teased Sherlock’s prostate, never directly pressing against it, but instead flirted with the entire region until Sherlock grabbed him by the hips and yanked him sharply forward.

Sherlock noted that he was sweating from the heat of their bodies and the friction. Every inch of his skin had bloomed with it, he could smell their combined arousal, and it was spectacular. “Sherlock! You’re so beautiful, so gorgeous.” Danny began to roll his hips, grazing his cockhead around Sherlock’s prostate once again in an intense tease, “I want you to come for me. I want to be the one who makes you come like this. I want to feel this pretty arse clench tight on my prick. Let go, Sherlock, let it all go.”

Sherlock’s cry was primal. Intense ripples of pleasure made his back arch so severely that his come spurted in a tight curve, splatting against Sherlock’s belly to drip onto the bedding below. “Come in me.” Sherlock felt so good. His body hummed with satisfaction, he felt sensuous and powerful. “Danny,” they kissed, Sherlock’s head craned to the side to reach his lover, Danny’s body rutting furiously now as he chased his orgasm, “Be the first person to come inside me.”

Danny’s shout was as deep and loud as Sherlock’s had been, and if it wasn’t his name that was cried, well, it hardly _painful_. Sherlock understood entirely. Danny bit down on Sherlock’s shoulder to muffle himself as his hips snapped, grinding down hard and Sherlock gasped as he felt his lover throbbing deep inside his body. Danny shuddered several times, small spasms making his hips thrust deeply a few more times before he went limp. They stayed there, still connected, panting harshly until they’d finally caught their breaths and could move a bit. “That had to be one of the most satisfying fucks of my life.” Danny’s voice was rough and tired, “You really are a genius.”

“I just knelt there.” Sherlock wasn’t unaffected by what they’d done together, and he didn’t regret it either. He felt relieved, content, and pleasantly weary. His heart had raced, his breathing had become laboured, and all it happened without a problem. Fleeting regrets that John wasn’t his first were just that, fleeting. He hadn’t been John’s first, after all, and if they did ever manage to become lovers, Sherlock wouldn’t even be within double digits of John’s first time at anything. It was what it was.

“Don’t ruin this, Sherlock. Your arse is heaven. I could die right now, and it wouldn’t even bother me, that’s how good your arse is.” Sherlock laughed silently as Danny lay on him. He could feel his lover’s grin on his back for a long happy minute before Danny slowly pulled himself away, carefully ensure that condom was properly disposed of. “Don’t get me wrong, gorgeous, as much as I’d like to stay right here all night, I think it’s best if we clean up.”

Sherlock found it weirdly difficult to walk to the loo and had to smack Danny on the bottom to stop him from grinning so smugly, “Stop it.”

“I shagged you bow-legged, leave off, I’m proud of myself.” Danny winked and helped Sherlock into the shower, both men serenely washing each of off. “You know, it’s so weird how easy this is. You’re the first person I’ve been with since Alex.”

“We know where we stand with one another,” Sherlock shrugged before continuing, “Even if you could put Alex out of your mind and move forward somehow, which I doubt, I could never be a part of your life, not for long.”

Danny looked up at Sherlock, and they both knew that Sherlock was speaking the truth. “You’re no better. I can never replace John, I can hardly stand in for him. He’s your whole life, mate, the one you should be with. I know this is short-term for both of us, so let’s just make the most of whatever we can, how’s that?” Danny kissed Sherlock tenderly, “Lots of cuddles, lots of sex, lots of laughs. We’ll do as much as we can before our paths separate again. I’d like that, at least.”

“Me too, Danny. I would like that very much.” Their smiles were fond and filled with affection but that was it. Sherlock was enjoying Danny very much, but his lover was right. Danny wasn’t John, and no matter how fragile their connexions were at this moment, Sherlock knew that he could never be entirely without his soldier, not forever. “I’m still going to help you with your case.”

“What if you can’t solve it?” It was a valid concern. Sherlock had taken apart Moriarty’s empire, but it had been disadvantaged by its wide distribution. Here in England, everything was much more entrenched, much more difficult to change or fix because of it. He may very well be unable to help Danny, but he could at least look, and help where he could. It was likely that he’d get Mycroft involved. His brother was just as much a spider that Moriarty had been, he had his own net in place, his own traps to spring. If anyone could help Danny get his life back, it would be the Holmes brothers.

“We’ll figure things out.” Sherlock was confident. Sherlock cleared his evidence board of the last case he’d worked and began to lay out Danny’s story. They used his laptop to search out images and names, printing off articles, and clues, stringing them together with coloured threads until the board was full once again. “It’s a start.” Sherlock kissed his lover, “Let’s eat. Mrs Hudson says we need _feeding up_.” It made him feel good to make Danny smile, and it felt good to smile back. Sherlock hadn’t had a good reason to smile for a very long time, but like everything else, it was easy to do with Danny.

They smoked on the fire escape, laughing like boys as they put their butts out in the same ashtray that Sherlock had stolen from Buckingham Palace so long ago, and ashtray that John used to keep his pocket change in at the end of the day. Sometimes one or the other would become blue, missing their other halves, and so they would just stop what they were doing and hold one another until it passed. They went for a walk to clear their heads when things got to be too much and shared stories with one another as they strolled.

Danny slept in Sherlock’s bed that night, discussing with Sherlock to the various ways one could trigger an orgasm in someone else. He had taken Sherlock’s request to learn very seriously, discussing practical matters regarding sex in a candid and open way that Sherlock understood and appreciated. It wasn’t that he didn’t wish he could learn these things from John, he just had no expectation of ever overcoming John’s heteronormative repression. If they even remained friends now was a serious concern, so he knew that he gained nothing by waiting for John any longer. Danny seemed intent on imparting every kind of warning, every sort of anecdotal reason for precaution, and plenty of hands-on experiential learning, posing Sherlock’s body this way and that, and himself as well if necessary. He knew a huge amount about sex, and soon, Sherlock would too.

The next day, the detective acquired a small wardrobe for his lover, ignoring Danny’s protests. After all, a handful of jeans and some popular culture tee-shirts didn’t even cost as much altogether as a single pair of Sherlock’s bespoke shoes. Danny couldn’t wear his worn-out clothes every single day, though he seemed content to dress mainly in Sherlock’s spare pyjamas. Sherlock found a great deal of satisfaction in tending to Danny’s needs and began to perceive John’s views on the matter, after all, the doctor had patched Sherlock up for years, fed him meals even when Sherlock said no, and generally looked after him. Sherlock even brought Danny to meet Molly. _“Boyfriend?”_

Sherlock observed her reaction. Dr Hooper was very surprised, but not negative. “We’re living together.” He could see the question in her face, “John knows.” Molly dragged Sherlock into her office, leaving a bemused but tolerant Danny to wait by the exit.

“What are you doing, Sherlock?” she asked, “You’re dating someone you don’t know, living with him…”

“We’re having sex too,” he interjected.

Molly kept going, “John knows and that’s good?” Sherlock nodded, “Why?” She looked up at Sherlock, her expression serious, “Have you changed your mind about John?”

Sherlock sighed, “No, I’m as enamoured of Dr Watson as I ever was. Danny and I have many things in common in that regard, he has his own…situation. We met just the other day, at the park, the day you walked Rosie and me there. One thing led to another, and now we’re helping one another with our respective problems.”

“And shagging.”

“An unexpected benefit.” Molly blushed, giggled, but also hugged Sherlock tight. When she let him go, her eyes were bright with tears, “I’m _not_ giving up on John, just so you know. Danny and I really are helping one another. He’s got issues that need dealing with, and I’m going to assist him. The rest is just…mutual comfort. I need to do this, Molly, I need to…let go of some of it.”

“Sherlock.” She seemed choked up, her eyes bright with unshed tears, yet a look of determination spread across her face, “It’s good. I’m glad for this. I told you John wasn’t treating you right. Maybe Danny is what you need right now. I’m happy that you’re trying. John is an idiot.”

“That’s not new news.” Sherlock smiled sadly, his heart gently aching for his beloved. There was no point lying to himself. Danny was marvellous, and Sherlock didn’t regret anything they’d done together.  Still, it was difficult to stand in front of his friend and admit that he had turned a page and was beginning a new chapter in his life, “John has to make his own decisions. Nothing I’ve done has compelled him so far. I won’t keep waiting for _more_ , not from him.”

Molly nodded, “Good. That’s good. Off you go, Sherlock, enjoy your _boyfriend_. He seems to suit you perfectly. You look _better_ , so much better than you did the last time I saw you, and if Danny is responsible for that, then that’s good enough for me.”

“You don’t think this is a terrible idea?” Sherlock wanted John and not Danny, Molly knew this. For a wild moment, Sherlock considered ending things with his lover, to throw himself at John and simply beg for the soldier to be with him.

“No, I don’t. You _deserve_ to have this, Sherlock. You’ve been so brave, so devoted, and you’ve suffered so much. John hasn’t appreciated a bit of it, and it’s...it’s…it is hateful! He _hurt_ you, Sherlock! I’m guilty too, I slapped you so hard when I should have been hugging you and telling you how sorry I was for making you feel like you had no one. Keep Danny. Go on, keep feeling good. You’ve earned it all a thousand times over.” Sherlock took his leave of Molly, walking out with Danny on his arm.

Sherlock got a text from John politely asking if Sherlock could possibly come by at a time that was most convenient for him. Sherlock agreed, but only after telling John that Danny would be coming with him. It took a few minutes before a following text from John acknowledged it. It was late in the afternoon when John greeted Sherlock and Danny, leading them into his oddly barren house. Danny was holding Sherlock’s hand and John was pretending he couldn’t see it. Sherlock found John’s now-obvious jealousy very revealing and recalled the many occasions he’d felt similar emotions when greeted with John’s newest female companion. He wanted to be the better man, but he was just childish enough to feel a faintly malicious delight knowing that John was suffering. “So, John, what’s going on?”

 _There was no point dilly-dallying. John obviously hadn’t invited them over for tea._ John cleared his throat, “I haven’t appreciated you, Sherlock, or thanked you properly for everything you’ve done for me if thanks are even possible. You’ve done so many incredible things for my sake, and I’ve paid you poorly for them. I didn’t ask for you to do so but that doesn’t mean I should have just shrugged it off as if it were all unimportant, it _was_ important, every minute of it was important. I missed you so much when I thought I’d lost you and here you are, alive and in front of me, still the most amazing man I’ve ever had the fortune to know.” Sherlock felt his cheek grow warm as he tried to process the words being offered to him. He felt a dichotomous mixture of emotions churn inside his heart. These were things he’d always wanted to hear from John but hadn’t. He wasn’t unmindful that Danny was responsible for drawing those words from John’s lips. Sherlock tried to focus.

John’s gaze dropped to his knees and his voice grew quieter, “I’ve been the worst friend in the world to you and I am ashamed of myself. I swear to you Sherlock, you won’t see that man again, I’m getting help, I’m working on all my problems, and I will never…” John had to take a breath. This was the sincerest proclamation he could make, and he wanted Sherlock to understand him clearly, “I will _never_ hurt you like that again. I will never raise my hand against you, all I want to do is spend the rest of my days trying to make up for the purely awful way I’ve behaved. I would like to know if I still have the privilege of calling you my best friend. I would understand if I can't, not after... there are no excuses. I am a complete and utter shit and we all know it. I’m going to be better from now on, for your sake, for Rosie, and maybe one day, even for myself.”

He let out a deep breath before continuing with the last of it, “I need to make so major changes in order to get myself straightened out, so, I’m selling this house. I can’t live here any longer. Living here isn’t healthy, I’ve become too circular in my thinking, it’s poisoning me inside. I've lost track of who I am and how I want those closest to me to see me. I'm...not good, and I think that staying here is part of the problem. I have enough issues to handle without continually making things worse by keeping this place. The sale is happening a lot faster than I imagine it would, it was put up officially only this week, but word got out even before that, so I’ve already got bidders that far exceed my requirements. My agent and I are looking over offers, so it will be gone by the end of the month.”

 _John still thought of him as his best friend?_ Sherlock absorbed the rest of the statement. _That was less than two weeks from now._ “Okay.” Sherlock could see that there was more, “And?” _What could John possible leading up to?_ Sherlock didn't let himself dare hope, but it flared up anyway. _Was he being selfish? Careless? Did it matter? He wanted John back in his life, properly._ Sherlock waited for John to continue speaking.

John cleared his throat and managed to not look at Danny, who had his arm around Sherlock’s shoulder. “Rosie and I need a place to stay for a few weeks. I’m going to use the money from the house to get a smaller place somewhere else, but I need to look around. I didn’t expect this place to go so quickly, but apparently, this area is in demand. I only have to decide on a bid, but after, I need someplace to call home in the interim while I view properties suitable to raise Rosie in.”

Sherlock was pleasantly stunned, his mind struggling to take in John’s words, to comprehend the situation that was unfolding, “You’re saying that you want to stay at Baker Street?” He sat there, frozen, his face an expressionless mask.

John looked uncomfortable now, and Sherlock realized that he had not reacted in any clear positive or negative manner. The soldier continued, obviously reluctant but also determined, “That’s what I’d hoped.” John cut his eyes at Danny, clearing his throat, “Rosie and I could perhaps stay in the basement flat since my old room is occupied. I haven’t asked Mrs Hudson yet, I thought, well, I thought it would be better to ask you if it was a problem.”

“The upstairs room is not occupied.” Sherlock didn’t miss how John’s lips turned downward sadly at this proof that Sherlock was indeed involved with Danny intimately, and how the soldier sat straighter, not looking at Sherlock or Danny now. _How would it work, all of them staying in one building together? The walls were thin, Sherlock hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d told John that he could hear him have sex with his lady friends. If he agreed to this arrangement, John would be hearing Danny have sex with him_. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that, “The basement flat is mouldy, not fit for habitation, especially by a toddler, you know this.”

“It’s okay, never mind, it was a stupid idea.” John stood up, “I’ll figure something out, don’t worry about it. Thank you for coming all this way.”

“Oh, sit back down, drama queen. He didn’t say there _wasn’t_ room,” Danny was shaking his head, “I’m downstairs with Sherlock, your old room still has your crap in it anyway, Mrs Hudson would be over the moon to have Rosie close by, and _I_ don’t have a problem.” He nudged Sherlock, “Don’t be thick, just say yes. He’s your best friend, you can’t have him living in the streets with a wee babbie, don’t be cruel for pride’s sake.”

 _Real boyfriends probably didn’t give permission to their partners to let their love-interest move in with them. Danny was so very special, so dedicated to his secret cause. He was making circumstances so much easier for Sherlock to navigate._ “Oh, fine. Give John his keys back, my darling, I’ll get Mrs Hudson to arrange a new set for you.” John swallowed hard and looked downcast as Sherlock used an endearment.

Danny fished out his keys and handed them right to John, curling the soldier’s fingers over them, with his hands, “Nah, don’t bother, gorgeous, I’ll just stay by your side day and night, you like that, don’t you, you greedy thing?” Danny kissed Sherlock gently right in front of John, his eyes filled with repressed laughter as he tormented the soldier.

“Yes, I do. You love it too.” Sherlock really did enjoy Danny’s company. He was only the second person that Sherlock had ever met who he liked to be with. Danny was amusing, sharp, observant, and ruthlessly driven when he was engaged. Danny was dedicated to the idea of re-educating John about Sherlock’s needs and was dead set on showing the soldier how to be with Sherlock properly. That they both relished their intimacy was merely icing on their reality cake.

 “You’re _certain_ that I won’t be imposing.” John’s face was stiff and rigid with contained feelings. Sherlock wondered why John had decided to come back to Baker Street. _Surely, he could have stayed with his sister, now three years sober, or with Mike Stamford and wife, both of whom were dotty for children. Why home?_ Danny explained merely by putting his hand on Sherlock’s knee. John looked as if he were trying to eat his own tongue preventing himself from saying anything about it. His left hand gripped the arm of his chair so hard that Sherlock could hear the fabric almost squeak under the pressure. Perversely, he suddenly felt better about sharing his flat with his lover and the man he loved. There was also no downside to having Rosie around, she was pure joy in a onesie.

“John, as Rosie’s god-father, it falls to me to assist providing her with life’s necessities. If it’s a home you need, even if you decide it’s just temporary, then, of course, I will agree.” Sherlock didn’t add that he would be beyond thrilled to have John right on hand, to see and to observe once again, even if their living situation _was_ a tad complicated. He could _smell_ John again, and he didn’t care how weird it was that he loved his friend’s aroma, it was a simple fact. Danny was entirely lovely, but he just didn’t suit Sherlock the way John did, and while he wasn’t distasteful to scent, he just wasn’t John. Sherlock was already feeling calmer, just knowing that John was coming home.

John swallowed hard and stood, “Thank you.” John hesitated, “I’ll text you when we need to start moving over. It won’t be much, I’m selling the house with whatever is left inside it after I’m gone.”

 _Whoever was purchasing it wouldn’t be get much extra apart from the less than comfortable sofa and overstuffed chair, and some second-hand appliances. There were no personal details left at all._ Sherlock glanced around at the once decorated walls but didn’t ask, “Bring whatever you like John, there’s storage downstairs, you know that. Rosie doesn’t take up much space, but I’m afraid the evidence board will have to remain. Danny and I are working on a case.” Sherlock wasn’t going to stop working because of John, not again.

John looked grey and washed out, “Yeah, working cases with each other.” He seemed lost for a moment, “Well, I suppose you have needed a new assistant.”

“You haven’t been available for some months now, John,” Sherlock reminded him sharply. _He wasn’t the one who had turned his back on 221 B Baker Street, he wasn’t the one who had given up on their friendship_.

“Don’t be a dick, Sherlock, John’s busy being a single parent _and_ working full-time to pay for this giant money-pit. You know, it wouldn’t have broken your legs to come over to his to help out once in a while, a cab would literally have brought you to his door, no walking involved. You really are a lazy arse.” Sherlock was now the one who felt guilty because Danny was right. _He could have offered to care for Rosie in her own home instead of having John always drop her off here. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been aware that John worked long hours. Rosie consumed a lot of time, why, laundry alone would take Sherlock ages if Mrs Hudson wasn’t doing it for him. Still, she only did it so that she could sneak in new baby clothes and claim she had no idea where they came from_.

John looked utterly surprised that Danny was defending him. “We can help you move, if you require assistance, John.” Danny was completely sincere, leaning into his offer with an open and friendly expression, “Call us day or night, we’re here for you.”

John looked even more surprised because Danny _and_ Sherlock were being earnest, and he could tell. Of course, John didn’t know that Sherlock had ulterior motives and wanted John back where he could see him, speak to him, to feel at home with, and to have him there as soon as possible, today, even. “Really?”

Sherlock wanted to say no because the last thing he wanted to do was haul boxes up and down flights of stairs, but Danny answered before he could say anything, “Sure. I mean, we’ll be working on the case most of the time, but we can carve out a few hours. Just let us know when you’re arriving, that way Rosie won’t be seeing her godfather’s bits by accident. It turns out that sex helps Sherlock think better, can’t have your little one catching him while we’re _relaxing_.”

John and Sherlock blushed equally bright and Danny laughed when Sherlock said, “That’s not funny. Rosie is still very young.”

“Sherlock, you are _beautiful_ when you blush, I told you I was going to set records making you do so.” Danny pecked Sherlock on the cheek quickly before he stood up, “It won’t even be a problem, we’ll just make sure to use the bedroom for all of that. John? I could murder a cup of tea. Mind if I go make us some?”

John had clearly been planning to end the visit now that his request had been made and accepted but now, he hesitated, “Sure, but I can do it, it’s not a bother.” Waving him off, Danny strode off to the kitchen and clattered around, clearly not planning on coming right back. Sherlock sat there in uncomfortable silence until John spoke once more, “He seems good for you. You look…good.”

Sherlock looked sharply at John. The soldier’s face was a blank, but Sherlock could still see the misery behind it. John was full of regret. It was blatantly apparent that John had feelings for Sherlock and didn’t have the faintest clue how to say so. Sherlock sighed internally and forced himself to say nothing because this was just more of the same. John had to get over whatever was holding him back on his own, he wasn’t going to try to help, not anymore. There was nothing to say at any rate. Sherlock was with Danny, for now, and John was with whomever he was currently shagging. Their old lives together were over, and it was new beginnings all around. “He is. We get on well. It’s…educational.”

John mouthed the word _educational_ before he lost control of his face, jealous envy and regret twisting his features into an unpleasant mask. Sherlock had never witnessed John attempting to restrain so many emotions at once but then John just exhaled sharply and stood, “Well, must be getting on with the day. Thank you, honestly, thanks for all of this.”

“Tea,” called Danny, deliberately not hearing John, instead exiting the kitchen and intercepting John’s attempt to put their visit to a close, “Sandwiches too, you’ll love them. Pro tip – you can trick Sherlock into eating his veg. Apparently, if you take a bagel and cream-cheese, he will eat the entire thing and not care about whatever else is in it. Look. Raisins and grated carrots. Who knew?”

Sherlock was already two bites in before he realized that Danny was being truthful. He hated raisins yet here he was, loving the odd sandwich he was wolfing down. Danny looked proud and John looked ill as they finished their sandwiches silently. When he was done eating, Sherlock said, “You are a miraculous cook.”

“I know.” Danny said in an offhand way, “It’s part of the reason you keep me around, that and the phenomenal sex.”

John’s face turned puce. With a clatter, his teacup landed on the table, “Well, it’s been a good visit, but I’ve got to go. Rosie needs picking up.” Rushing them to the street, John stumbled out of the house and nearly fell down the stairs in his haste to go in the opposite direction.

Danny strolled casually beside Sherlock and looked prouder than ever of himself. “See? Jealous and _already_ asking to move back. I am a guaranteed success.”

Sherlock stared at his lover, “You are deliberately antagonizing him.” _Danny was making John respond in all the ways that Sherlock needed to see and hear. He was incredible._

“Yeah, well, it’s working,” Danny smiled sadly off into the distance. Sherlock knew that his lover didn’t have much to look forward to. Once the case was solved, or even before, Danny was leaving, and he would be alone. With luck, Sherlock would not be in a similar situation but at the same time, his lover was poking a bear, or if relative predator size versus ferocity were a consideration, John was possibly a badger. The soldier was comparatively short but, he was highly trained, reactive, capable of tremendous physical savagery, and not to be toyed with about some things.

“He can very easily kill you, you know.” Sherlock felt the need to warn Danny, forgoing an explanation. Danny was able to see for himself what John Watson was, and if he wasn’t careful, he could trigger a very violent reaction from John.

“Yeah? So can Mrs Hudson. One pinch of poison in her scones and I’d be a goner. I’m not afraid.” Danny smirked, “Look, you beautiful, ridiculous man, _you’re in love with John_. You want him back. I want you to be happy. My life is fucking shit, and it’s going to take a miracle of miracles for it ever to be right again. There’s a chance for you and I want you to get it. See, it hasn’t even been a fortnight and he’s selling his house and rushing back here to squeeze into a single room with his kid! You don’t think he couldn’t have found another situation _easier_ than coming back here to watch you be with me? He wants you, he _cares_ for you, and way more than as friends. He now understands that he could have had you if he hadn’t spent so much time being a dick. He’s _realizing_ this now. It’s working.”

Sherlock thought about that. John _was_ selling the house that kept him nearly an hour away from Sherlock and was indeed moving himself and his daughter back in with him. Sherlock hadn’t anticipated such a shocking manoeuvre, “I suppose it is.”

“It is,” insisted Danny. “Now, come on, let’s get me introduced to this arch enemy of yours. I’ve got wasp nests to kick and vengeance to get. Find me some answers, Holmes.”

“Yes, my darling.” Sherlock had no problem leaning in and claiming a kiss from Danny. He was more resolute than ever to help his boyfriend, even if it meant he had to turn to his big brother once again. Mycroft owed Sherlock a great deal, and while it had been nice to have him in a debt like that, Sherlock decided that using some of that unique currency was wealth well spent if it gave Danny the closure he so desperately needed. “Let’s get a taxi. We’re going to an arrogantly posh men’s club called _The Diogenes_. How is your sign language?”

“I can sign _[how much for a blowjob](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FS7xqgqC9vE)?” _ Danny said with a straight face, demonstrating right there in the street.

“Good enough,” nodded Sherlock, flagging down a cab. “I’ll consider myself well-paid if you can do so in full view of at least five other members.”

“Consider it done.”

Disappointingly, Mycroft met them at the entrance, circumventing their childish prank, and instead, guided them toward a long sleek town car that was waiting for them, “Allow me to offer you both congratulations on the brevity of your courtship.”

“We’re not getting married,” snapped Sherlock.

“The last time you lived with someone you pretended to die and went underground for two years. I have no evidence that you aren’t inclined to dramatically escalate your newest romance in some manner. If I’ve overstepped, I apologise,” Mycroft mocked Sherlock.

“Nah, no need for _sorry_. It’s mostly just sex,” said Danny, “And a bit of intrigue, which is why we need the threesome.” He winked salaciously at Mycroft and eyed him up and down with such bold appreciation that a hint of colour touched Mycroft’s cheeks. Sherlock smirked.

Not to be outdone Mycroft retorted, “I’ve looked you up… _Danny_ ,” Danny just sat there, his eyes as dark and filled with mysterious joys as well as sorrows and questions as he ever did, “I know more about you than you realize.” Danny looked suspicious as well as uneasy, so Mycroft continued, “I was acquainted with your friend, _Scottie_.” Sherlock couldn’t help but notice how Danny’s body went tense, “When I heard what happened to him, I was deeply saddened. Now, fortuitously, my little brother presents me with someone who is equally put out by Scottie’s passing. I assume it is you who is supposed to be living in his house, now that he is gone. Curious how those pesky legal issues are keeping you from taking residence, as is your right.”

Danny had grown even more still and tense the moment Mycroft spoke, “How did you know him?”

“Via Whitehall, of course. It’s not so easy for men with certain, let’s call them _proclivities_ , to hide from peers who have similar…interests.”

“You’re gay like he was.”

“Indeed. Unlike my poor colleague, I have managed to gain enough power and influence that my tastes cannot be used against me. I am far above such worries where so many others are not. He was ill used, and I will very gladly help you strike back against those who saw to his end.” Sherlock had never seen Mycroft so openly vicious, “Surprised, brother mine? Scottie wasn’t a lover, barely a friend, but he was as good and decent a man as he could be. The bigotry that hampered him is steeped in hypocrisy since those that decry our inclinations are the ones who most often indulge in them. I’ve been keeping a weather eye out for many years. Danny, you have provided me with the most perfect of opportunities. I should be thanking you.”

“Thank me by tearing apart the people who killed my Alex. What they did to him…it was horrible, inhumane, just…needlessly cruel. They demanded so much from him and he gave it. They didn’t need to do what they did, I would have done anything to make sure he was safe, even if it meant never looking for him again. Now, he’s gone forever, I’ll never get him back, and they still won’t leave me alone!”

“I know, Danny,” Sherlock witnessed his brother being comforting, and it gave him insight on the many times that Mycroft had been there for him, exerting his wide-spread powers to keep Sherlock from suffering, protecting him even when Sherlock didn’t want him to. “We will root them all out. I have a plan.”

They went to Mycroft’s home. In the lowest level of the building was a special office. Hidden panels held weaponry of all descriptions, and one entire wall was filled with nothing but computer screens, all displaying different streams of information. “Fuck.” Danny looked startled.

“I did intimate that I knew someone powerful.” Sherlock pointed out gently. Danny was gripping his hand and he seemed upset. Sherlock realized then that Danny must have been shown someone else’s clandestine operations, operations that likely had only confirmed what he’d hoped was not true. “Mycroft _will_ find them, Danny, I swear. We’ll make them pay dearly for what they’ve done to you.”

Danny was silent but clearly overcome with both positive and negative emotions. Knowing full well what it was like to be torn apart by your own feelings, Sherlock did what he’d always wanted someone to do for him, he held Danny tight to him, and just let him process. It wasn’t until Mycroft returned that Danny pushed himself away, wiping his eyes, and focussing on what he was being shown.

For once, Mycroft set aside his normal condescending and often mocking tone, speaking to Danny with a straightforwardness that startled Sherlock. “I have been working for one government organisation or another since I was in university,” he began, “More than long enough to become acquainted with and versed in all the intricacies of the unspoken world that has our entire society at its beck and call. It’s all about knowing the correct people, not necessarily the upper echelons of society, no, that is a vain and pointless endeavour, rather, I knew it was necessary to establish connections with the people who would be the focal points of influence for many social domains.”

“That helps me how?” Danny asked, his face doubtful.

“That depends, Danny.” Mycroft indicated the handful of soft comfortable chairs that occupied a corner of the room, “Sit. Go on, Danny, make yourself comfortable.” They did as they were bid, Sherlock less happy about occupying a single seat by himself than he would care to admit. Mycroft poured them all a glass of scotch. “Tell me _everything_.”


	5. New Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has made a difficult decision and is doing his best to be grateful as he moves forward. It's not going to be easy, but for Sherlock, every effort is worth it.

John went through the motions of being functional for the rest of the day. When Harry texted that she was coming by with dinner, he didn’t respond. He took care of his daughter with almost exaggerated cautiousness, blank inside as he attempted to focus, to pay attention, making sure she was as happy and comfortable as he could make her. John was afraid he’d made a terrible error by inviting Sherlock and Danny there today. _They were together, so together, so completely together._

For some reason, John had assumed Sherlock would still come on his own. Danny had been unexpected and unwelcome, even though John had agreed to see them both. Reality had been harsher than he’d prepared himself for, but then John reminded himself of all the times Sherlock had interacted with Mary. _The world’s only consulting detective had helped plan their wedding! He’d learned how to fold paper napkins for them. Mary had tolerated Sherlock like someone might put up with an overly energetic family pet, and John hadn’t made a move to stop her. Sherlock had watched John kiss and practically fondle her dozens of times. John had rubbed his happy relationship deliberately in Sherlock’s face for ages!_

John cringed with remorse and self-recrimination. He’d been angry with Sherlock for so long, and over so many things. The trust he’d once had in his magnificent friend had been tested unto breaking and John realized that he’d never truly understood the depth of sacrifice that Sherlock had made for him, and how incredibly clear it was now _why_ he’d done it! Sherlock had shown John a thousand different way how loved he was, and John hadn’t caught a single clue. Instead, he’d flaunted his fiancée numerous times. He’d turned unjustified anger Sherlock’s way. He’d added to the physical pain the Sherlock had been forced to accept. He’d taken every moment of discomfort caused by Sherlock and had paid it back tenfold. Punishing Sherlock had become his life habit.

John knew he had to change, right now, or his sister’s concerns would become an ongoing reality. He had no right to be bent out of shape when all Sherlock had done was sit beside his partner _one time_. It could hardly compare. John had other regrets now as well. The apology part had come off far more stilted than he’d planned, certain confessions went unsaid due to the audience, and John fretted that Sherlock wouldn’t understand John’s penitence for what it was. The detective’s reactions had left John feeling jittery and strung-tight. He needed to get control over himself, fast.

He’d bungled it, in his view. Not only had it been humiliating to make his request in front of a stranger, but Danny had made it worse by being supportive and helpful. John hadn’t really considered the physical effort it had taken to contain his reactions towards the man. He felt the almost visceral need to remove Danny’s hands from Sherlock’s body, to stand up and make a claim that no one could refute, but he didn’t dare do anything of the sort. _Sherlock had chosen Danny over John, just as John had chosen Mary over Sherlock, and now, John completely deserved the anguish he was experiencing as he watched the love of his life be with someone else because he’d never once given Sherlock even the slimmest chance romantically. He’d be more of a hypocrite than ever if he thought he deserved differently._

John left Rosie on the large area carpet in the barely furnished living room surrounded by a corral made of toys to entertain her while he busied himself. The last of Mary’s personal things had been boxed up for donation already but he felt the need to keep going. John concentrated on the mundane details of his immediate world, getting a wash bucket and a rag so that he could carefully scrub down any surface he came across, cleaning away all traces of his life in that building. Harry startled him by knocking sharply on the door, jerking him out of his nearly meditative state. Dropping the cloth in the bucket and ensure that Rosie couldn’t reach any of it, John let his sister in. “Erg, it smells like disinfectant in here!”

“I’m cleaning.” Harry looked around at the partially glistening room as John relieved her of the takeaway bags she was holding. “I’ll get plates.” After kissing Rosie hello, Harry followed him into the kitchen.

“How did it go?” She spoke gently, “John?”

John’s shoulders slumped, and he stopped moving. He stood still for a long minute before sighing, “It went really well. Danny convinced Sherlock to let me stay.”

“Danny?” Harry was shocked, “Why did Danny need to convince Sherlock at all?”

“Oh, please, Harry!” John’s eyes blazed with anger as he turned to face her. “What if you popped by Clara’s tonight and asked if you could bunk at hers for a bit, how would that feel? What if she had a new girlfriend there, too?”

To her credit, Harry looked abashed. John knew for a fact that Clara was firmly single, patiently waiting for her ex-wife to get her shit together, and Harry knew it. Penitent, she said, “I get it, I understand. Sherlock probably wasn’t really on board with having you right there again, everything considered, but that still doesn’t help me understand this Danny bloke. I can’t see me encouraging an ex-girlfriend of Clara’s to move in with her, so what’s the deal with this man? There’s something more going on there.”

“Danny and Sherlock are working on a case together. They’re partners in every possible sense.” John knew he wasn’t hiding one iota of his personal pain when he said this.

Harry was kind enough not to point it out, simply asking, “What case?”

“I don’t know, remember, I don’t do _the work_ any more. I haven’t a clue what they’re up to.” _It was his own fault that Sherlock was working with someone else. If only he’d tried a little harder to be there for Sherlock, if only he’d begun seeing a counsellor earlier or with greater regularity, this all might never have come to pass!_

Harry looked even more sympathetic than ever, “You’ll get it all back, John, you just have to try. You haven’t even started yet. We both know it’s going to be difficult but, honestly, what are your choices? You love him, don’t pretend you don’t. He loves you, stop trying to explain it away, you know it’s true. You _need_ to be with him, even drunk off my arse back when you two first met, I could see it. Stick it out, John, go the distance. It will be worth it, I just know it.”

John had his doubts. Danny seemed to fit Sherlock perfectly. He was handsome, obviously clever, intelligent enough to catch Sherlock’s finicky eye, and interesting enough that the detective had not only welcomed the new man into his bed but into his home and life. John tried not to heave yet another self-pitying sigh but failed. If Sherlock had once loved him romantically, it was pretty clear that he was over it. “I think that all I’ve done is guarantee that I suffer the maximum amount possible before having to admit that it’s over for good between the two of us. Sherlock has Danny now, he doesn’t need a second. I’ll give this a try, Harry, but if it’s too much, I’m going to have to just leave. I can’t do it. I _know_ I can’t do it. I don’t have it in me to just let Danny…”

“John.” His sister’s stern voice cut him off, “This isn’t about Danny. It’s about Sherlock.” She glared at him. “You agreed that you wanted Sherlock to be happy. _He is._ You have a mission. You are going to go back to that Victorian time-capsule you revere so much, dig yourself in, and let your man see how you feel about him! Damn it, John! You are British! Giving up so easily is nearly treason! Danny is a bump in the road, that’s all. Stiff upper lip, or _other_ body parts, and all that.” Now Harry was winking in a ridiculous fashion.

John rolled his eyes but for the first time all day, he smiled easily. “ _Other body parts_ , really, Harry?”

“As your sister, I know full well _what_ body part you make your decisions with, Johnny.” He wrinkled his nose and she just laughed, “Eat your dinner, John.”

In slightly better cheer, John did as he was bid, hardly even noticing what he was eating as he mentally went over the possibilities his life could hold, “You know I’m going to bollocks this up, don’t you.”

“Just…yeah, okay, there’s a good chance there, but at the same time,” Harry reached over and gripped his fingers, “He fell in love with _you_ , John, just as you were. I don’t think you can fail, not if you just be yourself, your _real_ self, not this arse you’ve become lately. Sherlock sacrificed himself because he wanted you to live, so live. Don’t let your negatives cancel out your positives. Bad shit happens, try not to let it suck away to good bits completely when it does. I know you can do this, and didn’t you say he adored Rosie? She’s a valuable ally. Don’t be down.”

John had never loved his sister more _. Yes, she drove him crazy on a million occasions, and they’d spent more than a small amount of time screaming at one another, but he couldn’t deny that he was better for having her in his life. She was fixing her train wreck of a life, he could too._ “Okay, Harry. I’ll try. I’ll do my best, even.”

“You’d better, you ridiculous cock. Sherlock deserves the best you can be.” John grew silent as her worlds moved him once again. Sherlock did deserve the best, and from now on, John would be the _best_ -best friend a best friend could be. That’s all he had of Sherlock right now, and even _that_ was in perilous danger. John could not let it stay that way. It was the doctor’s fence to mend and mend it he would. John could feel himself sitting straighter now, digging into his food with determination. _Harry was right, he had a mission now, and he never once failed a mission._

After dinner was cleared away, Harry went home while John continued his task, sweating as he persisted in giving every square inch of the place a surgical scrub-down. Everything that remained to be donated was boxed up and stacked in what had been the spare bedroom. John’s personal possessions had dwindled down to a steamer trunk, two suitcases, a giant tote filled with kitchen things, and the large stack of collapsible plastic containers that were tightly packed with Rosie’s unusually large collection of clothing, toys, and accessories. Most of her possessions had been gifts, and John had no idea what he was supposed to do with it all now, but they’d be safe enough in the basement suite on Baker Street until he had a better personal situation sorted out.  Rosie had already outgrown most of the outfits, and hardly played with the toys. She just enjoyed being around them, so John had packed every item. _He’d keep most of it in bins, for now. If he really couldn’t bear living with Sherlock and his new significant other, he’d do what he’d originally planned, and purchase a home elsewhere_.

John was sleeping in Rosie’s room on a thick matt near her expandable cot. John didn’t want the bed he’d shared with Mary and had sent the mattresses to be professionally cleaned before delivery to a waiting charity. Camping out wasn’t so bad, even if it all was going shockingly fast. Rosie loved the new setup, rolling around his quilt and pillow for ages before she was willing to go to her own bed. He was going to disassemble her cot on the day of the move so that his daughter could retain the small familiar comfort of it for as long as possible. After checking each room to ensure that no donatable item had been left behind, John worked off his stress by continuing his cleaning efforts. By the time two am rolled around, John had scrubbed his old house everywhere he could figure out how to reach.

Without thinking, John just texted Sherlock. _Packing accomplished. Ready whenever you are._ It wasn’t until after he’d hit send that John realized how late the hour was.

Despite that, it was only seconds before Sherlock replied. _We’ll be there first thing in the morning. Have Rosie ready by 9 am. SH._ That didn’t give John much time to sleep. Another message followed immediately. _It will be good to have you back. I’ve missed both of you_. _SH_

Deeply heartened, John knew he couldn’t waste this opportunity, so boldly he added, _We’ve missed you too, me especially. See you soon_. There were no more messages after that, but John didn’t need any. _He was going home, and that was all that mattered._ Stretching out beside Rosie’s cot, John pulled a blanket over himself, shifted around until he was as comfortable as possible before closing his eyes. His mobile was clutched in his hand, Sherlock’s message still open, and a small hopeful smile on his face as he fell asleep.

The next day was busy. John was a bit surprised to see that it was Mycroft coming to collect him along with Danny, Sherlock, and a small host of Mycroft’s people. The elder Holmes greeted John briefly before signalling his crew to begin before returning to the interior of the vehicle and remaining there. There was an overabundance of hands to help, at any rate. It took them only a few minutes to fit all the containers the small lorries they’d also brought, packing all the humans into the car before their short procession ended up at 221 B Baker Street. While John directed things from the street, he noticed a vehicle parked down the lane, the driver openly watching their every move. _Mycroft_. John snorted because it was completely like Sherlock’s brother to be keeping security at the ready. He shrugged and ignored the spy. A few minutes later, the vehicle containing donations trundled off after the vehicle containing John’s things, followed by a final vehicle containing only humans.

Mrs Hudson was beside herself with joy, making off with Rosie only seconds after John arrived. John directed the assistants to the downstairs flat where they stored half the bins he’d brought with him and carried the remainder up to his old room. Sherlock re-assembled Rosie’s cot in record time while Danny un-bagged her linens and set up her small mattress himself. Before the morning was gone, John was entirely unpacked and moved in. As soon as the last container had been stored, Sherlock simply said, “We’ll be back later,” before leaving the flat with Danny in tow and not another word spoken.

John felt odd. He was alone in the at 221 B Baker Street, not even his daughter to distract him, and he felt awkward. At first, John tried to watch some telly, but he felt uneasy, as if he were in a stranger’s home instead of his own. He thought of his sister’s plan and sighed. There was no time like the present, so John got up, and did an inspection. As he’d suspected, the cupboards were rich in tea and biscuits but little else. Rosie couldn’t live on the same few things Sherlock did, a shopping trip was necessary. He peeked outside and saw the same car from earlier though the driver was different. He was watching Baker Street, so the good doctor sighed, turned away from the window and went back to his task.

John checked the bathroom and fridge, and even the small pantry that he’d installed while Sherlock had publicly been dead. By the time he was done, his shopping list was lengthy. There was a mound of laundry spilling over the top of the hamper, and when John peeked into Sherlock’s bedroom, he could see additional mountains of linen and discarded suits piled into a corner. He sighed, conflicted. It was their private space, but he knew Sherlock well enough to know that he’d rather go purchase a new wardrobe before he’d willingly do the laundry or even drop off the dry-cleaning. Danny’s things were in there too, so using a pair of nitrile gloves because Sherlock often had untoward things in his pockets, the doctor rounded up all the items he could see. After that, John went through the flat once more, gathering up the unpleasantly stiff and rank linen, and other bits that were in small drifts in the corners. It took a while to haul it all downstairs where the machine was, and longer to sort out which load to put in first, it all seemed to need cleaning urgently.

When he was ready, he popped in to ask Mrs Hudson if she needed anything and to give both she and Rosie a kiss on the head, John took himself to the store to resupply the flat with necessities. He needed to take a cab home and paid the young man an exorbitant tip to help pack everything up to the kitchen. Sherlock was out of nearly everything, including cleaning supplies, but after John was done unpacking his contributions, every nook and cranny was once again containing what it was supposed to from bog-rolls all the way to new bandages. The fridge didn’t even have experiments in it, so John took the opportunity to do a decontamination before loading up the veg, cheeses, spreads, cold-cuts, and a good-sized container of milk, as well as an assortment of juices, into the upper portions of it, leaving the lowest shelf and both crispers free for Sherlock’s potential things. The bread box was excavated of its backlog of old crumbs and re-filled with soft bread-rolls, and a seed covered loaf of multi-grain bread that Rosie enjoyed when toasted.

He moved on to paperwork. Sherlock loathed handling paper if it wasn’t evidence, and sure enough, when John went through the substantial pile on the desk, he located several cheques that had not been deposited, as well as several bills that had not been paid. Digging out his own cheque-book, John squared away Sherlock’s utilities and gas, paid up their trash removal, and wrote Mrs Hudson a large cheque to cover various damages to the kitchen as well as his portion of the rent for the next three months. Once he’d hand-delivered that, and posted the rest, John took his daughter to the bank to deposit Sherlock’s earnings into the mutual account they’d shared since John had first moved in. He was surprised but gratified to learn that it was still open for them both.

John felt better now that he’d put some effort into the flat. He made up a plate of finger-food that his baby enjoyed, and while he had everything out, John put together some sandwiches, wrapping them individually and storing them back in the fridge labelled with a note stating that they were there for anyone who was hungry. _If Danny and Sherlock came back this evening, perhaps they would be interested in a bite?_ John thought about it. Sherlock needed to eat more but he wasn’t going to go so far as to cook for them, yet it was just as easy to make three sandwiches at once as it was to make one, so he just did it, eating his immediately.

John brought the snacks downstairs, shared a cup of tea with Mrs Hudson before excusing himself to continue with the laundry. By the time it was all done, Rosie had been long since tucked into bed for the night, Mrs Hudson had enjoyed her herbal soother and was also asleep, and John was still alone in the flat. All the laundry had been folded and left on Sherlock’s bed, except for the towels. John switched out Sherlock’s bathroom linen with his own since Sherlock’s idea of bath towel was the same as the ones for kitchen towels. John’s were at least the proper size, and wonderfully absorbent to boot. After a quick shower, and one last look around, John made himself stop waiting for Sherlock to come home and went to sleep.

The next morning, John got up. Rosie was energetic and hungry, so he hauled her down to the kitchen the moment they were dressed and made her breakfast. He noticed that the sandwiches were gone and that some of the fresh fruit had been eaten, and that tea had been made and consumed since there were now dirty cups in the sink, but Danny and Sherlock were nowhere to be found. John even tapped on Sherlock’s bedroom door but heard nothing.

Daringly, he peeked inside and saw that the laundry had been put away and that the bed had been slept in, the dents on both pillows weirdly soothing. From what he could see, they’d come back just to sleep for a short while and then had left again. John realized that they were off working on their case. He then felt a bit proud that his sandwiches had been eaten because Sherlock often refused food on a case. He immediately became disheartened because obviously Danny had gotten Sherlock to eat, so it had nothing to do with John’s efforts.

Shaking his head, John stood straight. _It didn’t matter. He was helping. He was making Sherlock’s life easier. He was taking care of his friend, and his friend’s boyfriend, and that’s what was important right now. The very least thing that Sherlock deserved was bloody sandwiches!_ Marching back to the kitchen, John watched over his daughter as she mashed her soft fruit into her hair as much as into her mouth, laughing a bit as she scraped it off herself and gave another go at consuming it all. He knew she was finished when she began drinking her sippy cup dry, a sure signal that she was done with her meal for now. It was straight to the tub with her after that, and then, when she was dry and happy, he took her to the park to play.

John made a small lunch for himself, mostly just to keep his daughter company as she ate. He put together a large pot of stew and popped it into the oven to slow bake, entertaining Rosie by cutting the carrots into flower shapes and letting her gnaw on chunks of uncooked root vegetables, much to her great enjoyment. John smiled, enjoying his time with his little girl. When the evening meal was tucked safely away, John read the paper while Rosie played with her building blocks. Mindfully, John kept a large basket available. If Sherlock and Danny showed up, he could quickly gather up all her toys and be out of their way in no time. He wasn’t there to be underfoot.

When it was nearly seven in the evening, John was just taking out the scones he had baked for Rosie when they showed up. “That’s it, I’m breaking up with you and going out with _him_. You didn’t tell me he could cook! It smells incredible in here!” Danny was grinning, rubbing his narrow belly and bending down to peer at the baking tray, “ _Actual_ scones that someone made with their _actual_ hands. I can’t wait.”

“You’re not with me for _food_ , Danny.” Sherlock said querulously, “I thought you preferred takeaway.”

“Are you insaner than I already think you are? _A home-cooked meal,_ Sherlock! _Nothing is better than a home cooked meal!_ Sit down, mind your manners, and thank John for going through all the effort. He didn’t have to, but he did, and it…just shut up, I want to eat.” Danny smiled at John, “If that’s all right, John. It does smell amazing and I fucking swear Sherlock lives on tea fumes and sullenness because he certainly does not live on food. I am famished! We haven’t had anything since the bite you left us last night. Inhospitable, that’s what he is.”

“I don’t eat on cases! You know this! John, tell Danny!” Sherlock was already seated with Rosie on his knee, cuddling the small girl effortlessly, segueing into a rapturous and heartfelt sounding greeting, “Hello, my beautiful angel, I missed you.”

Sherlock kissed her head all over making loud smacking noises and Rosie giggled, whacking Sherlock’s shoulder with a spoon affectionately before kissing his cheek and throttling his neck with a hug. “Eat!” Rosie whacked him with a spoon again, “Eat, eat, eat!”

_Her first word!_ John grinned at his child, “yes, we all need to eat, Rosie love.”

“Yes, we do. Sherlock, this child has a greater grip on emotional maturity than you and she says you need food. I’m afraid the vote is not in your favour, it’s three to one.” Danny dug around the cupboards.

“She’s not old enough to vote!” Sherlock protested again.

“Two to one. We still win, right John?” Danny ladled out bowls of thick gravy-rich stew and set one in front of each of them, even putting a big scoop of it into a small plastic bowl for Rosie. He handed it to Sherlock who just blew on it to cool it off before setting it in front of her, handing Rosie the cheerful plastic spoon that Danny had also found. John plated the scones and set out the butter. Danny grabbed one, and set another beside Sherlock’s bowl, eyeing him meaningfully. Scowling, Sherlock broke off a tiny piece and ate it. John kept his smile to himself as Sherlock immediately broke off a much large piece and ate that too. It had obviously triggered his transport into demanding more because, without further complaint, Sherlock ate his portions, and with a bit of a blush, went back for seconds.

Rosie rubbed her dinner all over herself, testing to see how each different ingredient fell apart when pressed. Sherlock was very encouraging of her exploration. Since she’d already eaten her dinner, John wasn’t worried that she hadn’t done more than taste what he’d made, and watching Sherlock pretend to take notes for her was touching as well as amusing. Danny and Sherlock made huge inroads on what he’d provided, and it made him feel warm inside to see Sherlock wrap up another scone in a paper napkin and stick it in his Belstaff pocket for later, “We have to go again, Danny wanted to check on you two.”

“Sherlock is a bloody liar, _he_ was the one who was worried. I said, mate’s been to war, he can hang about the flat with his own babbie unsupervised, but he wasn’t having it. Mycroft probably doesn’t even realize we’ve left.”

“Oh, you’re working with Mycroft.” _That stung. He’d really been replaced._ Sherlock really didn’t need him any longer. All John was good for was…was…was nothing. _They hadn’t actually needed to be fed, they could have managed on their own_. Sherlock didn’t even trust him to look after his own child or to be left unattended for long in his old flat. All John was doing was wasting his own time trying to impress people who were out of his reach. _Stupid. Pathetic_.

“I wish we could work from here and not with Mycroft,” Sherlock grumbled. “Now John feels as if he’s being deliberately left out, and he’s not.”

Danny sighed and began explaining, “Mycroft is only helping because he knew a friend of mine, someone who died. It was murder.” Now John felt guilty for making their situation about himself. _Danny’s friend had been murdered, of course, Mycroft would enlist his brother’s help in solving this crime, especially since he was a mutual._ “Sherlock had no idea that Mycroft knew the same man I did, Mycroft kind of sprung that on us. It’s…it’s complicated.”

_Complicated_. John felt sad inside again. Sherlock _lived_ for complicated. _Not only was he sleeping with Danny, but his new boyfriend had also provided Sherlock with an intriguing case, a case fascinating enough to even involve Mycroft_. _John had made stew. Big fucking deal_. “I’m sorry about your friend, Danny.”

“You didn’t know him, John.” Sherlock sounded confused now, “Why are you sorry?”

“He’s offering condolences, you big dolt. John is being _sympathetic_ , and don’t pretend you don’t know what that is, all things considered.” John watched Sherlock blush right down to his neck, dropping his gaze to his own knees. Danny reached over, “It’s okay, just, think a bit more, okay?”

“Yes, Danny.” Sherlock looked chastened before sitting up and looking directly at John, “It was good of you, John, to be so kind.”

“You’re welcome?” John didn’t understand what was going on. _He’d never witnessed Sherlock simply give into a reprimand before. What kind of hold did Danny have over Sherlock?_ Suddenly suspicious and protective, John began to pay attention to the newcomer. If he was even slightly shady, John would risk everything to ensure Danny disappeared forever.

“Now you’ve freaked John out! Isn’t there a happy medium with you, Sherlock?” Danny sounded both amused and impatient.

Sherlock’s chastened appearance dropped away like the charade it was and he snapped back, “John doesn’t expect me to be kind _or_ solicitous! It feels odd attempting to pretend.”

“You don’t have to _pretend_ , nutbar. When you care about other people it isn’t an effort to be considerate.” Danny actually had his hands on his hips as he scolded Sherlock.

John watched Sherlock’s jaw flap wordlessly for a moment before he sagged back, “You’re right.” Sherlock turned to John, “I know you were just being you and here’s me being awful all over again. I’m sorry, John.”

“Okay,” John was rattled now, unnerved by Sherlock’s rapid change and general unexpectedness, “I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I,” Sherlock sighed, “But I’m trying.”

“Don’t worry, beautiful, it gets easier.” John had no idea what Danny was talking about and could hardly think about it, stuck as he was on the endearment so carelessly tossed out. _Yes, Sherlock was beautiful, or handsome, or whatever term you wanted. He was perfectly gorgeous, Danny didn’t need to mention it all the time. Anyone with vision could see that Sherlock was incredible._ “Hate to eat and run, John. I’m going to have a quick shower and clean up before we must go. Dinner was spectacular, I’m not kidding. Thanks.”

Danny just went off to do as he’d said, leaving Sherlock and John sitting in silence. Rosie yawned, and John realized that he had the perfect excuse to leave, “Well, it looks like she’s finally ready for bed.”

“May I, John?” Sherlock sounded wistful, “I’ve really missed Watson.” Sherlock’s preferred moniker for his daughter made John’s heart give an odd little skip, “Unless…”

“No, go on. You can read the stories while I get her changed.” Rosie eagerly climbed into Sherlock’s arms, her chubby body moulding against the rigid planes of Sherlock’s front as if she had poured herself onto him. Sherlock’s expression was gentle and a bit pleased, he kissed her curls before turning to go upstairs while John followed.

Sherlock read all of Rosie’s favourites, making the faces and doing the voices as she smiled and watched intently. John wrestled her into her pyjamas and fought to get her under her blanket, his baby intent on being awake as long as she could see Sherlock. The detective gave her a stern look and shook his finger at her when she kicked her blanket off one more time, “This is the end of operational hours for today, Watson. Time to maintain your transport which, as we know, requires an adequate amount of sleep. It is now 8:30, well past your optimal bedtime. Don’t argue, we wouldn’t want to deviate from your ideal schedule. First eye. Second eye. Good.”

John watched in utter amazement as Rosie obediently closed one eye and then the other, falling asleep mere seconds later, her body lax and motionless as she breathed. John turned to Sherlock and mouthed, “How did you do that?”

Sherlock shrugged and nodded his head toward the door. They stepped onto the landing and Sherlock pulled it shut, shielding Rosie from their conversation. “Babies thrive on predictable schedules and repeated behaviours. Whenever she needed to nap, I would just put her in her bed and tell her to close her eyes. It always works for me.”

John was astonished. _Sherlock had learned to do something with his child that he’d never considered possible, or even considered at all, and he would never have known about it._ John didn’t need to dig far to recall that not so long ago, he was busy deliberately ignoring everything that Sherlock did. “You’re amazing. That’s just, amazing. I don’t know that it would work for me, but I may give that a try.”

Sherlock gave him the first genuine smile that John had seen from him in months, “If you want, John. I hope you succeed.” He paused again, “I’m really happy you’re back, John.” John felt something glowing pleasantly inside his chest as he returned Sherlock’s smile, their eyes meeting steadily for a long moment.

Sherlock looked away, a faint blush on his cheek, then immediately descended without another word. John nearly trailed after the detective but he knew that Danny was in the shower and that as lovers, Sherlock was likely to follow him in, and John just wasn’t ready to hear them go at it. Instead, he got himself as ready as he could in the privacy of his room, laying on his bed and just waiting for them to leave. Half an hour went past before he heard a soft baritone whisper, “Later, John,” followed by the sound of the door to the street closing.

John got up and went to the kitchen to make tea. He needed the loo and dreaded going in there and witnessing whatever mess Sherlock and Danny might have left behind. What he found were two sets of damp towels and a roomful of steam but that was it. _It smelled just like Sherlock, and from his cleaning earlier. John knew that Danny had his own products, so did that mean that Sherlock showered alone? John_ found himself hoping that he had and then chided himself for having thoughts about it at all. It wasn’t his business if they showered together or not, it just wasn’t. Goodness knew that John had showered with his temporary girlfriends more than once when Sherlock had been at the flat, again, there was nothing to compare between then and now.

John went to the kitchen and washed up. He didn’t want to do it in the morning, not when he had to take an early train just to drop Rosie off with Harry for the day so that he could go to work. Just because he was living at Sherlock’s didn’t mean he could quit his job. He still had a future to save toward, and a child to plan for. With a sigh, John put the leftovers in the fridge in a container, destined for his lunch on the morrow. Glancing out the kitchen window, he spotted the security detail sitting down the block. There were two of them today. _What a waste of manpower._

John was walking up the stairs when his mobile vibrated. It was a text from Sherlock, “Just learned that we’ll be off to Scotland to follow some leads. Back in a week. Please inform Watson that I will be bringing her a surprise upon my return.”

John’s mood turned dark and sad. He wouldn’t see Sherlock for a week now, and he’d be all alone here at the flat, except for Rosie and Mrs Hudson. Jealousy ate at John as visions of Sherlock and Danny enjoying romantic forays, wherever they were. He texted back without thinking, “I’d have loaned you my kilt if I’d known.”

He was flirting with Sherlock. John closed his eyes and groaned. _Why was he flirting with Sherlock, Sherlock who was going out of town with his boyfriend, to work on their case together as the couple they were?_ He sighed now, realizing that Sherlock probably wouldn’t recognize his text as anything remotely flirtatious. A moment later, another text arrived. “If I’d known you would have let me use it, I would have taken you up on that. It looks better on me anyway.”

_When had Sherlock tried on his kilt?_ Another message arrived. “I apologise. I’d forgotten that I’d promised myself not to let you know that I’d tried on all your clothing one afternoon when I was bored. Your legs are longer than they seem, just so you know, the hem of your kilt suits my height well.”

Sherlock couldn’t be flirting back. That just was not what was happening. Sherlock was just telling John that he’d done something strange but really, how did you quantify strangeness when it came to him? _The man had a fingernail collection and they didn’t come from Sherlock!_ “Not that I doubt you but I’m going to have to see that to believe it. My gran made me that kilt, it was made specifically for me.”

“I’ll get a Holmes kilt made, then. You can try it on, and we’ll call it even.” John blinked. _Sherlock was offering to not only get a kilt of his own, and who knew that the Holmes family had a Tartan, but he was offering to let John try it on? What about Danny?_

“I knew you were my best friend for some reason.” Sherlock had always made free with John’s possessions but had also always allowed John to do the same with his, why, they’d gotten their shared bank account the very same week John had originally moved in because Sherlock really, really, really did not care for taking care of daily minutiae. John did though, that’s why they got on so well, their differences balanced.

“Indeed John, though I don’t think that trading kilts is something most male friends do.”

“Well, you’ve always been a man out of time. Perhaps it’s a trend we can start.”

“Amusing, John, but worth considering. We’re at the airport now and we’ll be going dark, though not by choice. It’s very nearly Neolithic around here, no wireless. I’ll talk to you in a week. Don’t forget to give my message to Watson.”

“Will do, Sherlock, keep safe. We’ll miss you.” He shouldn’t have sent that last bit, not at all.

“I’ll miss you both dreadfully.” John’s cheeks heated at the bald statement. Sherlock never said things like that. _Had Danny typed it? Why would he though? If it had been Sherlock, why now?_ John was delighted and mystified in equal amounts and wasn’t to know that this was the last friendly conversation he would have for a very long time.

John was on autopilot as he got himself ready the next day. He hadn’t slept well and was in a bit of a zombie state as he left the flat with his daughter. Travelling to Harry’s so early in the morning was always a trial and John almost got on the wrong train, forgetting for a moment that he was leaving from a different station. Everyone on the train seemed grumpy and snappish, and even Rosie was fussy and miserable. When he arrived late, Harry was taciturn from lack of coffee, taking the baby wordlessly and sleepily shutting the door on her brother’s face. To make things weirder, John felt like people were watching him but whenever he attempted to glimpse who it might be, he only found disinterested or occupied persons in their stead. It made him feel paranoid, especially on the ride back to work. The tube was even more crowded than earlier, and fragrant besides. Too many people crowded into each car, and not everyone was fastidious about their personal hygiene nor how they packed their lunches. There was nothing to do but endure it.

John was so overheated and irritated by the time he reached his stop that he completely failed to respond when his instincts screamed that he either move faster or turn around. A painful sting in his upper left arm preceded the lights around him fading. Adrenaline did it’s best to rush through his body but was foiled by the muscle relaxant he’d been given. John’s legs wobbled out from beneath him, but a strong arm hefted him up, cheerfully laughing and saying, “You old sot, I told you that all-nighters at the club would make you pay come the morning! Come along, my friend, let’s get you home.” John’s body wasn’t responding to any of his needs, like the ability to raise his head to see who was hauling out of the station.

The classic British invisibility field sprung up around the pair of them as Londoners avoided looking at them or in any way noticing that a smaller man was being dragged away by a bigger and taller man. John’s arms were limp and useless, and he could barely get his legs to work. His eyes had become bleary and impossible to focus, and he couldn’t get his mouth to work correctly. Before they reached the exit, a second man appeared, taking John’s other arm over his shoulders, allowing the two of them to carry John easily away. Before he could overcome any of these problems, they were out on the street for half a block before John was pushed into the back seat of a car. John hoped against hope that Mycroft was watching via CCTV and would be tracking him, or that the security detail that had been tailing him since the move would miraculously drive by and execute a timely rescue. He thought about pushing through to the other side of the car and attempting to get away, but his body just didn’t want to respond.

A man seated up front was speaking into a mobile, “Field specimen acquired. Reaction time exactly as anticipated. The subject will arrive as scheduled.” The second he was inside the vehicle his brain gave up all efforts to learn more about what was happening because John blacked out completely.


	6. Strange Allies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson has been kidnapped in broad daylight right under the public eye.

John woke someplace cold and nearly black from lack of light. He was completely naked as well as shaved from head to toe. It wasn’t exactly cold, but it wasn’t warm either, especially without a stitch on. Swallowing down nerves and a flutter of fear, John felt the surfaces around him. The first felt rough, cool. Cement. There wasn’t a lot of space, it didn’t take long to feel four walls around him. Two of them were smooth, almost warm, and were translucent, at least, he seemed to be able to see beyond them, but only a few inches and he could not locate a door. John took several deep breaths and tried not to panic. _He’d been kidnapped, that was obvious, but by who and for what reason, he had no clue._ He got to his feet, stiff from laying on a hard surface for who knew how long and explored the space he was in as best he could. He found a toilet along one wall, and some further careful touches taught him that there was a tiny metal sink not too far from it. When he twisted the tap, a thin trickle of lukewarm water ran out.

John drank. He knew he was in shock, that he was likely becoming dehydrated. The water quenched his thirst but also let him know that his stomach was empty. “Hello?” he called out, “Where am I? What do you want?” John strained to hear a response and felt his heart begin to pound when he heard a shuffling sound to his right. He backed away from it, pressing his body to the wall furthest from the sound. A moment later, the extremely dim light helped him see a male figure standing on the other side. The man was naked, sported a long, ragged beard and snarled hair that fell to his shoulders. He had horrific looking scars on his shoulders, lower abdomen, and along one thigh. “Who are you? Where are we?”

“Our real names are unimportant. Forget you ever had one. We’re being held in a test facility, I don’t know where. I’ve been here for a long time. I’m called _2539_.” The man paused, “We’re guinea pigs. The people who have us are using us for a human trial, a very illegal one. It’s going to sound ludicrous but they’re attempting to create supersoldiers.”

John couldn’t disguise the scepticism in his voice, “Supersoldiers. What, like in the movies?” In the back of his mind, John was listing all the people he was worried about. _Was his baby all right? Was she with Harry? Was Harry okay? What about Sherlock and Danny? Were they targets too? Who had taken him? Where was he being held? Who was the ragged man in front of him? Why was he here?_

“I told you it would sound ludicrous, but yes, just like in the movies. They’ll check on us in a while. They don’t say much but from what I gather, we’re still in England. We’re trapped. I can’t figure out how to escape.”

John wasn’t sure if he should believe the stranger, except, he was obviously a prisoner too. “How long have I been here? What kind of tests?” John swallowed hard and quickly inspected himself as best he could, running his hands over his body and trying to determine if anything felt different or odd. He found it when he touched the scar on his shoulder, the one that had cost him two careers with a single shot. There was a new bump, an injection site. “What is it?”

“I don’t know. This batch of the implant will make you heal faster. Believe me, it didn’t always work.” John looked at the deep scarring on the man’s body and felt his unease grow. Before John could ask more questions, company had arrived. A cleverly hidden panel opened, allowing the entrance of a large group of people. Most were wearing surgical scrubs, their faces covered in paper masks and safety goggles. John was reminded of forensic teams, and suddenly, he worried even more for Sherlock, his baby, Mrs Hudson, everyone. _What if Molly was in danger? He had no idea who had taken him or what they wanted_.

Two of the larger newcomers trained handguns on him, compelling him to get to his knees. The front of his cell receded into the wall to the left, and John could only hold himself still while he was examined, rudely biopsied, and notated. His neighbour was receiving similar treatment. Just when he thought they might be done, John found his arm being seized by two of the strangers who held firmly, while a third injected a painfully large bored syringe worth of clear fluid into the muscle mass of his upper arm. It hurt, burning almost immediately. John grew dizzy and flushed and felt adrenalin punch through him as he began to panic. _What had he been given?_

They were scrubbed down, swabbed from head to toe in some kind of antiseptic fluid. John’s neighbour was restrained before he was ruthlessly shaved from head to toe until he was as bald as John. _All of it was going to itch like mad in a day or two_. The defoliation revealed a man younger than John had estimated, fit, dangerous looking, with sharp cheekbones and a piercing gaze filled with barely repressed anger.

A different person began to speak into a recording device, “Both subjects have been cleared for the next phase of testing. Initiate 5646 stimulus.” The lights dimmed as everyone left the area just as a screen of imagery was projected onto the far wall by an inset device in the ceiling. John managed to get to his knees, his eyes glued to the recognisable scene unfolding in front of him. _A swarm of people were inside 221 B Baker Street! The recording device had to be set in the corner near the ceiling, that was the only place that could capture this angle._ There had to be a dozen people, at least, all swathed head to toe in tan fabric that showed nothing except their weaponry, and they seemed intent on a single point of interest. John noticed that all of them had one hand on hip holsters, ready to draw. _Why were they were armed?_

John’s heart raced as he heard a scuffle slightly off camera. _The invasive force was fighting with someone. Someone grunted in pain, the voice deep and rumbling._ _Sherlock_. John’s heart was in his throat as he listened to the muffled voices grunting as they struggled. A crack of gunfire made him jump and all the breath left his body as a leg slithered into camera range and stopped moving. John couldn’t see the rest of the figure, but the leg was wearing a fine cut trouser made of a material John immediately recognized. _Sherlock_. The leg was dragged away as the team organised themselves quickly and John watched in horror as they carried a closed body bag out of view. _Sherlock_.

John was wordlessly screaming his grief and pain, his fists beating against the glass of his cell. _Sherlock. They’d killed Sherlock. Sherlock was dead for real. Sherlock._ John lost his mind. Savagely he threw himself against the glass, kicking and punching anywhere he might be able to break through, but it was impervious to his wrath. When his knuckles were bloody, and three of his toes broken as well as five of his fingers, John resorted to slamming his head against the unforgiving surface, determined to kill himself rather than live without the man he loved. _Fuck whoever caged him. He wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of being able to experiment on him. Death first_.

His intentions were thwarted when his chamber was flooded with a smoky gas that drained the strength from him, bringing him low. As he lost consciousness, John saw the other man approach their dividing wall, his face filled with sympathy, and his eyes filled with far too much understanding. At that moment, John knew that he’d lost the same thing John had just lost and that these people had done it. Reality slipped away but John hung onto the one feeling that burned unquenched. _Vengeance_.

John awoke a long time later, sprawled out face down, and immediately he knew something was very different as well as very wrong. Grief still filled him but he managed to look around, his view grainy and myopic. He was in a new cell, a well lit and extremely large one. His neighbour was with him and the man looked tense, guarded, and he was peering all about them defensively. He was also wearing a strangely comical mask that covered his eyes but that also had an intricately carved panel that extended from the centre of his eyebrows down to his chin. If it hadn’t been for his scars, John wouldn’t be able to recognise him. Now John was on alert. It was then that he realized that his own head was entirely encased in a leather mask. Even his mouth was covered, though whatever material obscured his eyes and nose as well was easy to see through, and more importantly, to breath through. _What in the world was going on?_ “Get up, get up. Back to back, man. You were out long enough for your bones to heal so fucking get up! Help me, and we both might survive.”

John got up, immediately positioning himself behind the much taller man. They seemed to be in a kind of enormous fishbowl, a gigantic one-way mirror that curved up and away from them. John could hear people muttering on the other side but couldn’t see them. There seemed to be a lot of them. Suddenly, John understood. _They were being pitted against someone or something. They were entertainment._ He was disgusted all over again. The quest to create a super-soldier wasn’t for any noble cause or patriotic sentiment, it was greed, pure and simple. _John was a gladiator in a modern arena, and today’s offering to the gods of carnage was about to arrive_.

He wasn’t wrong. An almost invisible door opened, and two cautiously moving men came through it. They were wearing body armour, and both carried stout wooden cudgels. John was still naked and was only wearing his mask. They had no weapons. All they had were their wits and no time was wasted. The moment the door closed, both men flung themselves directly at John and the man he was imprisoned with.

The man was fast, John had to give him that, and strong as well. He used his body well, clearly accustomed to physical warfare and he fought without mercy. John had many years ago mastered his strengths and weaknesses, and it was easy enough to recall all his old tricks and manoeuvres to remain unharmed while wreaking havoc on his enemies. He had been a surgeon as well as a soldier, he knew all the tenderest places, the most vulnerable spots, and he exploited every memory he had to bring his opponent down fast despite the man being armed. His neighbour was only a few seconds behind him, felling the second man with a rather nasty looking jab to the throat. The man collapsed gasping and didn’t get up.

John felt a sting on his arm and when he looked, he saw a small dart sticking into it. His neighbour cursed, “I fucking hate when they do this.” He had a dart too, and together, they fell down, robbed of consciousness by their unseen masters. John wondered if he would ever wake again, and as the darkness swept over him, he also wondered if he even wanted to. _Sherlock_.

When he woke next, John and his fellow prisoner were fed, dosed, scrubbed, re-shaved, outfitted, and shoved back in the fishbowl. This time, they were given a cosh to share between them and four opponents to fight. John found it easy to follow the other man’s lead. They fought together as if they’d been by each other’s side for years. Deftly, they swapped the cosh back and forth between them, shattering knees, throats, elbows, and jaws before putting down one opponent after another until they were out of people to fight. John had no time to think of Sherlock, or anyone, not until he came back to consciousness inside his cell. Then, the empty hours were filled with regretful mourning. _He should have told Sherlock that he loved him, that he was magnificent, beautiful, a marvel in every respect. He should have been a more engaged father to Rosie. He should have been more loving with Harry. He should have done so many things instead of wasting his time on drink and fucking strangers_.

Their routine was set. Each day, biological samples were taken, doses were administered, all before they were brought out to fight again. The team referred to him as _5646_. Each bout they won earned them another small hand-weapon. John now had his own cosh and a small shield that strapped to his forearm. His neighbour had earned a strange looking metal glove, something he called a cestus. It looked a lot like a pair of rather uncomfortable fingerless gloves but the metal panel across the knuckles amplified the power of his blows tenfold. Unfortunately, with each advantage they were granted, their foes were given four times over. John and the stranger he depended on battled people wearing padded armour, impervious helmets, and sharpened edges.

John wasn’t certain how much time was passing but it felt like a lot. He’d knocked out more than two dozen people and accidentally killed five others, though no one told them if that was a good or bad thing. He tried to add up the time. More than a week, way more. How many weeks? How many times had he been forced to fight? How long were they kept unconscious after each match? They took wounds aplenty during them. John knew he should have bled out on a number of occasions, but his body simply sealed off the affected areas and rapidly grew over until he was left with a patch of shiny new skin shaped like the original damage. It took minutes and it felt disturbing. He had no answers but each time he woke, the worst of his injuries would be almost completely gone, leaving only the silvery shadow behind. “Either they’re building us up for something worse or we’re going to be sold off to someone as we are.”

John and 2539 lay side by side on their respective floors, whispering to one another through the translucent wall. They were tired, too tired to sit, but they knew they needed to communicate. 2539 softly said, “We have to get out of here.”

“I agree. Ideas?” John was certain they needed to break out, somehow, and soon. His skin was crawling with anxiety. He knew something tremendous was going to happen if they didn’t get out soon.

2539 dipped his chin, considering his options. “Our best chance is at the beginning of a bout. There are two entrances to the bowl. The panel stays open 17 seconds, I’ve been timing it. It takes fifteen seconds to run all the way across the space, leaving us a potential two seconds to get through the door and on the other side before it closes entirely. If we stand in the very centre instead of at the back, we can cut that down to an eight-second run.”

“What then?”

“With any luck, they won’t be expecting us to try this and won’t be heavily armed on the other side. I can’t say what the next stage is because I have no idea of the layout of this place. If we can get to some kind of control room, or miraculously, an actual exit, then we’d have a real chance.” John nodded discretely, edging as close to the panel as he could until they were almost pressing their foreheads together, intently exchanging ideas and possible plans until they had the beginnings of something worked out. John wanted to live. He wanted to escape. He needed his freedom so he could exact the vengeance that burned steadily inside him. His daughter was who-knew-where, practically an orphan, and Sherlock was dead. Someone needed to pay for that, and John would make them suffer horribly for every drop of blood that had spilt, and nothing could stop him from trying. _Death. First._

* *

The world’s only consulting detective was tearing his hair out, literally. Danny grasped his hands and pulled them forcibly away from his scalp, “Stop,” he pleaded.

“John is gone!” Sherlock was shouting. It had been five days since he and Danny had left to go investigate leads in Scotland and four and a half days since Mycroft sent a helicopter to bring them directly back, retrieving them the moment they tried to check into their hotel room. Sherlock felt ill when he watched the footage of John being hauled off the Tube, and the grainy image of the vehicle he’d been dumped in to. All the angles were wrong, the car parked just outside of the effective range of the various cameras. Careful planning had gone into the abduction and only Mycroft’s unceasing surveillance had caught it so early. There were few leads to follow since there wasn’t much to go on. “No one has made demands, there are no clues to follow, there is absolutely nothing, Danny! I need to find John! He doesn’t know about how I feel! What if someone has killed him? What if they’re hurting him? He could be brainwashed. What if someone sold him on the flesh markets? What if he’s being raped right now? Danny, I have to find John!”

Sherlock knew he was hysterical, but he couldn’t stop himself. Danny hugged him tightly, holding onto Sherlock with nearly painful intensity. “We’ll find him, Sherlock, we will.” He kissed Sherlock firmly, and smacked his behind, “Take a deep breath.” Sherlock obeyed. “Hold it for twenty seconds then let it out.” Sherlock obeyed again. “Clench your fists and tense your shoulders.” Sherlock did. “Release.” Sherlock obeyed again and suddenly found that he could breathe a bit and that his heart wasn’t pounding so frantically in his chest. “Better?”

“It will never be better, Danny. I don’t know who has John. Is it one of my enemies? One of yours? John’s? What if someone was still angry with his late wife, what if they’ve taken him because they can’t have her? Danny!” Sherlock’s mind couldn’t stop generating horrific images of John being tortured, humiliated, broken, or even killed. He had never felt so helpless, so without a plan or direction. He couldn’t control the mess in his mind, everything was chaotic and unfocused because John was not there and might never be again.

There was a sharp rap at the door, and both men jumped. Sherlock hated that his anxiety over John’s disappearance was causing his ability to be observant to lessen. Struggling to clear his mind, Sherlock strode over and answered it. Anthea walked in, ignoring Danny, and setting a very sleek and expensive laptop onto the sticky coffee-table, “Your brother is granting you access to every possible surveillance camera in the city. Don’t tell anyone.”

 _As if Sherlock cared to market such information or access_. Greedily, he snatched up the machine and began going over the recordings of streets and businesses that radiated around the location where John had been taken. There was a tremendous amount of data to go over, and hours passed before Danny forced him to walk away and sleep for a few hours, “You need to stay sharp for John, Sherlock. We’re not going to find him right away, these buggers are shamefully clever at hiding, so pace yourself or you might miss something. We need to keep ourselves fed, rested, and alert, right? For John.”

Sherlock had been truculent at first but as Danny spoke, his dismissive arrogance dissipated, “Yes, Danny, for John.” Sherlock was determined. He’d been close to unravelling something with Danny’s case, he knew it, and he was very nearly certain that John’s abduction had been triggered by their trip. Guilt ate at him. _Watson might end up orphaned because of Sherlock’s case. What if he couldn’t find John, or what if he did find John, but not in time?_ Sherlock silently berated himself. He couldn’t allow himself to waste his time and energy with recrimination. He needed to conserve every joule of energy toward finding his dearest friend. Sherlock crawled beneath his duvet in the dark and felt Danny climb under on his side of the bed. He was here to sleep, so sleep he would. Sherlock closed his eyes and willed himself unconscious.

Four hours later, Danny was under deep, but Sherlock was back to pouring over the footage. The evidence wall was filled with information about Danny’s case, so Sherlock had taken down all the artwork on the remaining wall and was using it for printouts he’d made regarding John. A piece at a time, Sherlock cross-referenced snapshots and video-clips until he sussed out reoccurring faces. Slowly, he painstakingly backtracked and pieced together a rough trail of actions that led to John disappearing off the Tube. He noticed that there had been someone openly observing their residence for days. The same vehicle had been parked outside John’s clinic and had been caught four separate times outside John’s preferred Tesco. _How had Mycroft missed that? How had he?_ Sherlock forwarded the tiny scraps of information he found to his brother. No matter how it made him feel, Sherlock was determined to do anything at all in order to find John and bring him home.

Sherlock realised at some point that he’d eaten some toast with almond butter on it, and several wedges of cheese, as well as most of an orange that had been peeled and left in a pile of segments. When he checked the time, he realized that nearly twelve hours had gone by. Danny had been setting down platters of food within arm’s reach, a trick of John’s, and Sherlock had just helped himself while he’d paced or stared off into the distance. He drank the hot tea he found, and the occasional glass of water, and went back to reviewing footage. He knew that Mycroft had an entire team doing the exact same thing, but he couldn’t just _wait_. This was better, and who knew what he’d spot? Every pair of eyes he could commandeer was for the better, in his opinion. If he could, Sherlock would co-opt the entire country if that’s what it took to get John back.

Danny was very nearly as motivated as Sherlock was, and at first, Sherlock thought it odd. An entire week went by before Danny explained his fervour, “If only people had been this serious about finding Alex, we might have gotten to him in time. If I’d had the right connections, maybe he wouldn’t have died. If I’d known the right things the right way, maybe I could have done something to keep them from wanting to have him killed. My Alex is gone but your John is not. I’m making a pot of soup, and we’re going to have those rolls that Mrs Hudson made for us. I don’t want us to run out of energy because we’ve got another long night in front of us.”

Danny was meticulous, patient, and fussy. He helped construct the new evidence wall as things came together. His good humour had faded, and he became enigmatic and was often lost in thought, sometimes even becoming teary and maudlin. Sherlock wasn’t any different. John’s abduction was no simple grab involving a handful of people. Someone had engineered the movements of several social layers in order to successfully pull off, and Sherlock now knew that he was dealing with a sprawling organisation that seemed entirely entrenched throughout the city. It was coming across as accountable to no one as well as unstoppable. The connexions connected the strata of the city around them, and at first glance, seemed insurmountable. Sherlock and Danny realized that they had uncovered a disturbing and wide-spread trend of abductions. Normally, people were grabbed for monetary reasons – prostitution, or as unwilling organ donors, but Sherlock and Danny were noting that people of every age and physical condition were being grabbed, some right off the street, and no single outcome could account for why.

A few abductees were traced to cities in other countries, but even when found, they could give no further information about why they had been chosen. Some were forced to work in inhumane factory conditions, others were given as living rewards to various people for jobs well done, but most simply disappeared as if they’d never existed. Several members of Sherlock’s homeless network had vanished in similar circumstances, and it was vexing. There was a well-orchestrated shadow organization with a broad reach, but it had no head that they could find.

Mycroft became a daily visitor, grimly exchanging information with his agitated younger brother. The car that had followed John had not been one of his. The facial recognition software they used turned up nothing on any of the people that had been watching them, and that was a clue all on its own. Sherlock discovered that they acquired a staff, all thoroughly vetted by Mycroft and then again, by Anthea. To keep things relatively calm, Sherlock and Danny communicated with their staff electronically because Sherlock really did prefer to text. The team quickly learned that under no circumstances was Sherlock allowed face-to-face contact with them since the consulting detective had already ripped two of them to emotional shreds when they’d had unadvisedly reproached him for how he went about examining information. His stress-induced attacks helped no one, and they didn’t have time to continuously vet new members, especially since their case was so very complicated now.

In the few moments they permitted themselves a private life, all they allowed were extended embraces. Sherlock didn’t want sex, but Danny didn’t seem to mind only sleeping in his bed. They cuddled, but not as much as they had before John had gone missing. Watson was being cared for by a large contingent of people, mostly Molly, who had volunteered her time. Harry and her ex-wife had been sent off into protective custody, both protesting, but Sherlock was adamant. He would protect the last of John’s family with his life, if necessary. Keeping Watson with him was safest, even Harry agree, so Mycroft had arranged for a leave of absence for the pathologist and brought her on staff as the official nanny/forensic specialist. Rosie adored Molly, and Danny noted that Sherlock was a lot more relaxed when he knew the toddler was in the care of someone he trusted. It was all very well that the many security layers of their support team had been twice vetted, but Sherlock didn’t know any of them personally, and even if he had, the ghost of Mary Morstan reminded him that he was far from infallible when it came to identifying a foe up close. It helped that Molly understood how Sherlock worked and was more than capable of providing information in a way Sherlock wouldn’t have a problem with.

Two more weeks went by and Sherlock’s energy output only increased. He obeyed Danny implicitly when it came to food and rest, but otherwise listened to no one about how hard he was driving himself. His entire focus was on tracking John down, Sherlock wasn’t interested in anything else. Sex was no longer a part of their lives, not even kisses or cuddles. Sherlock and Danny slept together, but that was it, neither man seemed interested in physical gratification when there was so much information to sort through. They were driven. When he had enough information to act on, Sherlock began to do what he did best – legwork.

Danny wasn’t as excited about it. In his experience, breaking into people’s homes and poking about their private offices wasn’t an especially safe hobby but Sherlock ignored his concern, “I’ll never find John if I rely solely on what information is legitimately available! Whoever has John took him for a reason, and I highly doubt it had nothing to do with me. There is something happening, and they need John to make it happen, and in order to stop it, I need to take John back from them.”

Danny didn’t protest too hard, especially after learning that the people who had taken John were linked with the people who had murdered Alex, “You’re sure this is them?”

Sherlock paused for a long moment before looking at his lover in the eye, “I am 80% certain that this particular group of people are the gateway to the actual persons in power. I believe that they are harvesting people for a larger purpose, likely something nefarious, something that benefits only a chosen few, and those few have little or no interest in the laws that rule this land. I believe that you and I are both victims of these people, but I also believe that they do not realize that we have made a connection with one another and are now working against them. I believe that Mycroft is our best primary weapon and that using his contacts and resources just might be enough to topple this hidden empire. Regardless, they have John, and I will destroy every last one of them for taking him from me.”

Danny looked at the expression on Sherlock’s face. The detective spoke with determined certainty, and when Danny nodded, Sherlock relaxed a tad but went right back to work. Danny came up behind him, wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s torso and kissed his shoulder, “Good enough.” Danny released Sherlock and went over to the filing cabinet that Sherlock had picked open. Both men were wearing nitrile gloves, so Danny began to carefully comb through the hard-copies of records, looking for items that Sherlock said were valuable and photographing each one carefully. Sherlock had a portable hard-drive and was copying every digital record he could locate, erasing his trail after he was done. After Danny closed the cabinet, both men went over every book in they could locate, seeking notes or any other clue to help them on their way. When every nook and cranny had been thoroughly investigated, they left as silently as they had arrived, reactivating the security system so that no trace of them remained. That night, they visited four different places.

Later on, they met with Mycroft in his private offices at the _Diogenes Club_. There, Mycroft provided a stand-alone computer upon which Sherlock downloaded everything he’d obtained so far. With some misgivings, Sherlock allowed the young man Mycroft also provided to begin working on the aggregate data, sifting and sorting through information to try and find patterns. Sherlock was sure that he could do a better job of it, but he was but one man, and if he wanted to find John, then he would need to keep doing what he was good at which was leaving no stone unturned. Danny wasn’t as comfortable with computers but since his talents lay more toward seeing links that were hidden, it wasn’t any surprise, to Sherlock at least, that Danny was the one to notice something odd, “Isn’t it weird that we have all these pins all over England but there are these huge dead-zones?”

Sherlock stopped rifling through his latest stack of papers and peered at his lover, “What?”

Danny was standing in front of the massive map of the UK that currently covered the entire region above the fireplace. He had a cup of tea in his hand and he waved it at the map, “Well, we’ve put a pin into the address of everyone we can find a case-connexion to, right?” They had. All the pins relating to John’s case were in blue, and all the cases relating to Alex were in red. The pins were densely clustered in urban areas, but Sherlock now saw what was blatantly obvious but that he’d missed until Danny pointed them out – massive spots were completely pin free except for one, which had a single pin in it. He had only paid attention to where the pins were and hadn’t bothered with where they were not, but Danny had seen, “What is this one again?”

Sherlock took a deep breath before releasing it carefully, “Baskerville.” He was not happy. He was extremely _un_ happy, and when he was this upset, there was only one person to shout at. Calmly, Sherlock took out his mobile, and hit speed-dial #2, “Mycroft? Can you explain to me why we have _no_ evidence relating to Baskerville aside from the H.O.U.N.D.S case?” There was a pointed and lengthy silence. Sherlock’s lips pressed together in a thin line before he spoke again, “Mycroft, would you care to explain to Danny and I both why you are concealing relevant information from us?” More silence. “Mycroft, you have exactly fifteen seconds before I end this call, use the CCTV access you gave me to spy on your superiors before _spontaneously following my impulses until I am no longer irritated_.”

Now Mycroft spoke, “You can’t. _I_ can’t. It’s…complicated.” Sherlock scowled at the reluctance in his brother’s voice and it was as if Mycroft could sense the negative expression, “I’ve made assurances, Sherlock, promises. Lives hinge on me keeping my word.”

“Where is John? I don’t give a fuck about your assurances and promises to others. All I want is John, and if I find that you knew how to get him back for me yet failed to do so, then I will do everything I can think of to make you _oh so sorry for that.”_ Sherlock’s promise was heartfelt. _If he had lost John because of some pointless power-play that his brother was engaged in, then Sherlock would dedicate every ounce of his being to ruining Mycroft’s entire world, and when he was done destroying his brother’s work, Sherlock would take Mycroft apart in as many ways as he could devise. When he was done with his brother, Sherlock would move onto Mycroft’s friends and allies, and he would continue even if it meant leaving London a smoking ruin from the top on down. There would be no mercy, not if Mycroft had played with John’s life just to earn some political collateral_. Sherlock had perfected his anarchistic skills whilst hunting down Moriarty’s empire keepers, one small country would be no problem at all.

“I only know of rumours, unsubstantiated stories, whispers.” Mycroft was trying to sound aloof, but all Sherlock heard was his guilt. “We keep one another’s secrets because knowing too much is the survival game of every empire.” Mycroft tried to pause again but something in Sherlock’s threatening silence kept him going, “Human trials.” He exhaled into the mobile, sounding exhausted and worn, “Baskerville was testing animals, and oddly enough, of all those spaces you have finally noticed, was the most…humane. John is not there, he is elsewhere.”

Sherlock didn’t hesitate, “You know where he is. You’ve known all along.”

“No, I did not know, not with certainty, and even now, I am only suspicious but there is no proof, no guarantee, not enough to move with.” Now Mycroft sounded frustrated, “I have been attempting to penetrate the site but with no luck. The exterior is impenetrable even though it is wide open. Any attempt to get within anywhere but the actual entrance would cause alarm well before the facility becomes vulnerable.”

“Tell me everything you know.” Sherlock demanded, “I will expect you right here in front of me as soon as you can manage, and you _will_ give me all your secrets. I am done playing games, Mycroft. John is in danger, and you are keeping me from him. I want him back as soon as possible.”

Mycroft paused to consider what would hurt him the least, upsetting one of his peers or his volatile and devious brother, especially when he was backed by an equally angry appearing and possibly mildly physically threatening new boyfriend. “Very well, but I will meet you out front in ten minutes, we may as well just go.”

Danny looked at Mycroft when they were all finally gathered together, and there was the beginnings of loathing in his eyes, “Your own brother, Mycroft. Tell me, what makes you better than the people we’re hunting?”

Mycroft was silent for a long moment, his face an unreadable mask. “Very little,” he replied tonelessly, “Sometimes, nothing at all.”

“You are the true drama queen of our family! _Very little_ ,” mocked Sherlock, “Stop trying to paint yourself as a master villain instead of a bureaucrat and take me to John!”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, “We can’t just stroll in.”

“I did in Baskerville when I _pretended_ to be you. Why can’t you since you are _legitimately_ you?” Sherlock demanded instantly, “Why don’t you know more about this place since you have that _minor position_ in government? You pride yourself on knowing everything.”

Mycroft sighed, “Flattering as it is that you deem me omnipotent, I am merely human. I’m not the only clever man in Whitehall. There are many who have the sway, resources, and ambition to manage a black site. We could be following a false trail, the description seems correct, but the timeline isn’t. My sources report of a blond military man with blue eyes that is being held but insist that it’s been a good year or more. John hasn’t been gone that long, and the description is far too vague to assure me that it is _actually_ John who was sighted. Blond blue-eyed military men are hardly a rarity in England.”

“What was the other clue?” Danny asked, “Something must have made you think it was John.”

Mycroft sighed, “The man is reported to have a gun-shot scar on his left shoulder. It’s not entirely unlikely that another soldier sustained a wound similar to John’s but it’s all I’ve found so far. It could be nothing.”

“It could be everything. Take me there. I want to look around the grounds.”

“It’s under heavy electronic surveillance and is fenced, besides.” Mycroft looked at his brother, “You can’t just break in like you did before. There’s no easy way to break in, not without giving them days of advanced notice. I’m positive they have an escape route installed and I’d rather not allow them to disappear with all the evidence before we find John. We must proceed with caution.”

“Then I want to examine everything _outside_ the fence line!” Sherlock glared out the window, unwilling to give his brother the slightest chance to change his mind. “I’ll find some way in. I will learn where John is, and I’ll go get him myself.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft began.

“Sherlock,” Danny overrode the elder brother, “Don’t lose your head over this. Stay calm. If it’s not John, then we could be getting ourselves stuck inside a slow-moving problem. Take a deep breath.”

Sherlock kept his eyes on Danny now, allowing his lover to help him calm a bit. He needed John more than ever and he was not at all certain that he was doing the right thing. He felt something tugging at his heart, urging him to move faster, and at last, he heaved a great sigh. “Drive on.” The car sped forward, leaving London behind them as they headed north. “Electronics can be defeated a number of ways. I’m thinking of a rather easy one right now if I had the right tool, and as it happens, I know someone who has access to the very thing I require.” Sherlock stared at his brother, “I’m going to give you a list, dear brother, and by the time we get where we are going, I expect all that I asked for to be waiting. Do you understand?” Mycroft looked disturbed but said nothing. Instead, he nodded and Sherlock sat back. “Excellent. Let’s get going.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one  
> more  
> chapter

**Author's Note:**

> I may or may not be responding to comments. I have very little free time, so finding enough to even write in is a serious challenge, and finding extra time to respond to people properly is practically nonexistent. I don't mean to ignore people or make it feel like I'm snubbing you, I am not, I just haven't been introduced to adequate cloning technology that allows me to do what I love (writing) over what I absolutely must do (real life stuff), so I apologise in advance. That being said, I hope everyone is enjoying this particular journey. I can't believe I even tried to write a fic where Sherlock is with someone else, but there I am, doing it. Hang in there, things will get better.


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